The back door
The back door,
the comfy one,
where friends with bikes
come looking for fun,
where dates in crewcuts
drop you off
to caveat of
father’s cough,
where summer slam
on laundry day
warns of basement
straightaway.
The portal to life
with homework clutched tight,
from lunchbox to car keys,
witness to rite.
The brass-handled doorbell
as years go along,
pealing bing-clunk
instead of bing-bong.
In births and in deaths,
the back door invites
to be part of the story
a family writes,
so it’s fitting I think
that a door be a gate
enshrined in a fence,
back-dooring in state.
With thanks to Lois for the photograph,
submitted to Dan Antion’s
Oddments 