Coming Home from Work (variations)
There are the doors
He is tired.
His brains and bones are tired.
His senses, his very self tired.
He wants merely to sit,
his hands a pedestal
for the face-down bust that is his head.
He wants to rest his back
from the pushing
to do what had to be done (on time)
to do what bores him (till he cries)
to do, to do, to do.
He yearns for his little recovery ward.
He stands at his door, ready for that
little piece of in-between
waiting on the other side.
For first, he will be a stranger
because he is
not of the prevailing winds
not of the moving rhythms
not of the moment just passed
behind the door.
Then he will find that bit of energy
to make happy noises and smiles.
He will tread water
till he can flow on with the stream.
He opens the door and finds
a harsh wind blowing in his face.
He must be the executioner again,
He wants peace, but must give war.
And he hates his duty and hates the
judge who passed sentence and
hates the timing of it all.
And his anger, his anger
finds the target too easily, too well.
He stares at the door
for a while.
Then turns and leaves.
For behind the door
Is the Big Empty.
Harry W. Yeatts Jr.