PROSE POEM

Standing at the Turnstile

A prose poem about coming and going

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You’re standing at the turnstile
eyes moist
arms crossed in resolution
“I need some time alone”
“Again?”
I think but don’t say

I’m exhausted
from plodding through the quicksand swamp
of our perpetual parting
driving that twisted highway
never sure
if the next exit is mine

But I would do it ‘til judgment day
if that’s the price we pay
to stay
together

fuck I’m stupid

For two years I’ve invited you in
and you’ve stood at the threshold
one foot craving the hearth
one foot planted in the dark earth
outside

I’ve known
Your wit, your wonder
your secret wisdom
your eldritch charm
the warmth of you curled up
content beneath my arm
two wine glasses on the table
the dull spatter-beat of rain
tripping against the window pane