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Poet, Artist and co-owner of Lasting Images Photography

Friday, November 12, 2010


I don’t understand 
  the revolving door.
Moving, always moving
       in one place.
  There is comfort
in an open door,
       a closed door--
  knowing just where I stand,
one side or the other
       of somewhere.
  But here I turn
forgetting where I got in,
       unsure when to exit.
  Okay, I’m an idiot.
I find I’m transfixed
       by the man two slots
  ahead of me.
He is both fat and flimsy,
       held together 
  by a bow tie, a ghost
between sheets of glass.
       I can’t decide if I  should follow him

or if he is following me.

1 comment:

hwf said...

With a revolving door, it is never open, nor is it ever is always in transition. A great metaphor for life.

Judy, you've written a keeper with this one.