The Wrong Way Home by James Tate

All night a door floated down the river.
It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure
from its former life, like the time the lovers
leaned against it kissing for hours
and whispering those famous words.
Later, there were harsh words and a shoe
was thrown and the door was slammed.
Comings and goings by the thousands,
the early mornings and late nights, years, years.
O they've got big plans, they'll make a bundle.
The door was an island that swayed in its sleep.
The moon turned the doorknob just slightly,
burned its fingers and ran,
and still the door said nothing and slept.
At least that's what they like to say,
the little fishes and so on.
Far away, a bell rang, and then a shot was fired.

by James Tate

Other poems by 'James Tate'

Dream On

A Knock On The Door

Restless Leg Syndrome

Loyalty

Goodtime Jesus

Days of Pie and Coffee

The List of Famous Hats

Shut Up And Eat Your Toad

Never Again The Same

The Lost Pilot

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