The Wrong Way Home Poem by James Tate

The Wrong Way Home

Rating: 3.2

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

Kiran 02 January 2019

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Shaun William Hayes 23 December 2011

Such amazing images, feelings and journeys in your work. Unsettling at times, yet real and true to who you are, or at least true to the moments of you. Being called genius won't help you, but knowing another dreamer of liminal worlds, including this one, might.

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James Tate

James Tate

Kansas City, Missouri
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