David McLansky

(5/24/1944 / New York City)

A Riff on Pradip Chattopadhyay's Fine Poem 'Gateman.'


Open the door, old gateman,
Open your garden to me;
Your wrought iron black spear points,
Deny me shared ecstasy.

I’ve thrown a ball through your grates
Just to win entry.
I want to see all your flowers,
The roses, the pink peony.

How strange to walk in the city
To be halted, locked out by a gate;
To see a sign that says, “Private.”
To realize my life doesn’t rate.

Oh quiet glade in the city
A refuge secured, evergreen,
With pathways that snake around bushes
That serve as a privacy screen.

Oh Open your door, old gateman,
Allow me this bucolic scene;
I want to test all your benches,
And lose myself in your dream.

Submitted: Friday, June 28, 2013
Edited: Saturday, June 29, 2013

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