The Door

I built it myself, you know.

 

 

“You’ll never make a living at it,” he said.

SO

Capricorn practicality picked up the gauntlet:

Worked  myself ass-less between the ears

Sought and achieved sheepskins

paved a living

double-mortgaged a money-pit

went in hock for cars

all with the door shut.

 

 

But I didn’t just construct the door;

Far too miniscule for me —

Instead, obsessive door obstruction:

Stuffed every crack,

Caulked and varnished to seamless,

Hinged in iron-corrosion-rust.

Immuring that right-brain spark,

the flame self-immolated,

damn-near choked to death.

Hence, the jagged-sanity glare.

 

 

Now near-end:

The door’s mountain-high

With passes so snowed shut

That Life’s glacial.

Is that all there is?

This frozen door?

Give me dynamite or give  me death.

 

 

Door destruction in a single blast;

Clearing debris’s sucked time.

But the message is clear, Dad:

There’s making a living and then

There’s making Life.

 

 

Now

keeping the door open is the dare.

Fellow doorstops help.