Poetry Journal Jan. 10, 2024

 



When she closes her door, I close mine.

I don't need a telegraph to get that she's upset.

I'm too good at pushing buttons I don't know I'm pushing until way too late, and putting my finger in the dike after I'm already neck deep -- if not in quick sand this time, then just as scary, and so I stop, peer out the peep hole in my door to see if and when it is safe to open up again, if ever, not able to take back what's already posted, but halt the flow until she or someone else tells me its ok to wade out into the water again.


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