A stretch of metal mesh
warped by summer humidities,
encased by the creak of rusted hinges
and the click of a small push-latch that even
my pudgy, clumsy hands, sticky with jam
could thwart with ease and residue
You’re welcomed at the instance of a first spring rain,
opening our ears to the pattering of burgeoning life,
the clatter of cousins catching frogs and rolling in mud,
the bubbling gossip of adults assuming they’re drowned out.
At night, maroon light, seeping from a grandmother’s lampshade,
beckons through you, guiding the sleepy steps of a finished graveyard shift.
At day, my eyes unfocus your shape, blurring metal into a fuzz thin enough
so that I only perceive the shocking green of grass and a laden satsuma tree
The clear shouts of visitors, the open air filling our lungs.
As weeks melt into seasons, your presence is for granted.
But you claim yourself when you warble in the wind,
As you slam shut—ignored behind our turned backs.
When winter falls, the opaque door falls,
Locking confinement back inside.
Finally, I remember you and yearn,
But you wait patiently, an insight
Of fifty years I do not have,
Years coming to a close