A Pen is Not a Key

I sit in the doorway to your house,
writing this.
Inside icefish blue skylight.
Thin squares of cold on the floor.
Furnace tunnels through, wanders
with the hours
from room to room.
One up the stairs to your bedroom window.
One on the chilly basement floor.
All this way,
and circled back.
Huffing and puffing.
Lost.
They say, stay-put. Don’t move.
Freeze.
Don’t look when the bus passes.
Come in,
have tea, watch blankly as steam
leadens the glass,
trees back into the grey sky,
branches feel out the silence,
full when I fell in love.
How long is that.
My pen is as nearly silent
as the ticks of a clock in the kitchen,
the sound picking a lock.
Pen is my signature you keep
in your purse. A pen
is not a key, a real key
to your front door,
to all your rooms.
I’m not the one who enters.

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