J.K. Durick is from Vermont, where he teaches writing and tutors writers online for the Community College of Vermont. His recent poems have appeared in Madswirl, Eye on Life, Yellow Chair Review, and Leaves of Ink.
Another Day
The way they are
distributed,
Sequenced seems all
wrong.
There’s always this
newness,
Mornings like to
pretend to,
It stirs and even
enlivens us,
But then, after that,
they go on,
As we know they will,
like laws
Chiseled out in stone,
hardened,
Immoveable, as
predictable as
Noon or a change in the
weather.
Another day, like its
predecessors,
Ticks along, clicks
along, a parade,
An army of hours
marching by,
In step, eyes front,
flags furled,
Silent bands stepping
cautiously,
Ominously disappearing in
the end.
Another day darkens
later on, brings
Us full circle, home,
the same dog
Barking, left overs
reheated again, and
Then, what it has
become, television,
Harmless conversation,
perhaps some
Popcorn, a nightcap to
wear us, bear us
Off to bed, off to
dream about another
Day, the one we just
left, or the one
Coming on, the one
coming on, coming on.
In a very real way it’s
just another day.
Full of It
It’s
at the bottom of the hill, of course
Right
next to that patch of dead grass
And
it’s at the top of that same hill
As
he starts out, and stays with him as he
Races
down, letting gravity have its way
Pulling
him, his feet barely touching as
He
runs from it, to it, with it along for the ride
And,
he’s sure, the next time they open
His
skull, as they do from time to time
To
probe and touch to test his reflexes
They’ll
find it next to the section where
He
keeps childhood memories and the taste
Of
strawberries and if he’s awake while
They’re
at their work, he usually is, he’ll hear
Them
say, hey look, it’s here where we least
Expected
to find it in such large quantities.
Door
I have spent
hours with doors
I have stood In
front of doors
Behind doors
Spent time indoors
Some outdoors
Opened them, Held
them
Wished them open
Slammed them Closed
I’ve painted a
few
Planed the
bottom of one
Replaced the screen
In yet another
I’ve locked ‘em,
kicked ‘em
Peered around Some
Hid behind
others
I’ve spent hours
on doors
Decorated some, used
them
To say important
things
I have owned some,
sold some
I have knocked
on a few doors
Made metaphors of
others
I answer them, greet
my guests
At them
I have sat for
hours
Staring at them,
waiting
Reached for the
knob, hoping
I have hours of
doors
Doors of hours
I have finally
become a door
Part opened, Part
closed
But a door nonetheless.
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