By John Grey

I look up at the north side of a huge frame house,
twice as wide, as high, as the one I live in,
rough pine shingles
brown with cream trimmings,
stained glass windows,
cupolas, cornices,
an architect’s history lesson.

How do you knock on the door of such a place?
What right has this fist?
A circular alcove, dark entrance –
this is not the way
to any place that will have me.

                
“When I’m not writing, I get anxious.” – the writer