All night a door floated down the river. <br />It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure <br />from its former life, like the time the lovers <br />leaned against it kissing for hours <br />and whispering those famous words. <br />Later, there were harsh words and a shoe <br />was thrown and the door was slammed. <br />Comings and goings by the thousands, <br />the early mornings and late nights, years, years. <br />O they've got big plans, they'll make a bundle. <br />The door was an island that swayed in its sleep. <br />The moon turned the doorknob just slightly, <br />burned its fingers and ran, <br />and still the door said nothing and slept. <br />At least that's what they like to say, <br />the little fishes and so on. <br />Far away, a bell rang, and then a shot was fired.<br /><br />James Tate<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wrong-way-home/
