Stage Three

no one enters the house using the door.
The doors close without the use of hinges and locks.
The living room is turned upside down.
The traces of my steps are a myriad labyrinths of
puzzles, cross, crescent, moon, sun, stars, and

dead leaves just below the body of a rotting log.
Log on. Say some more. This is freedom.
The railings are roses. The stairs are rivers.
The walls are faces of the one you make love.
The roofs are ideas. Theories live there and metaphors
Abound in the living room.There is an old piano and you
Begin to play: Vienna woods. You dance the waltz with her.

Whispers mossy on the carpets. The toilet is kept empty
And shiny white tiles, glossy to the feel of your fingers.
The bedroom is bare. You too complete the picture.
An hour of sex. Gracious! This house is the most beautiful
House of our neighborhood.

It is not our home yet. Tomorrow we unpack.
The distance is our journey. And it is somewhere else
With someone you still love. It is not I.

I am just a picture: black and white, and dusty.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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