There are the doors
to Home.

I. Tired

He is tired.
His brains and bones are tired.
His senses, his very self tired.

He wants merely to sit,
quietly,
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.


II. Stranger

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.


III. Executioner

He opens the door and finds
a harsh wind blowing in his face.
He must be the executioner again,
the punisher.

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.


IV. Alone

He stares at the door
for a while.
Then turns and leaves.
For behind the door
Is the Big Empty.


Harry W. Yeatts Jr.