Before the Door

by Bill Yarrow | Jul 19, 2011 | Poetry | 4

You just can’t believe your key

won’t open the front door anymore.

Determined to prove reality wrong,

you board a flight to Budapest

and walk wet streets in search of

a keyhole you’re convinced exists.

And when you find it on the side door

of the Nicolae Bakery, your wry heart,

rapt with vindication, laughs heartily.

The key works! It really works!

But you don’t enter. You don’t dare.

Time passes. The seasons alter.

The world gives birth to triplets.

People drop hot pennies into your hat.

Photo Source: Harvey Images

About The Author

Bill Yarrow

Bill Yarrow is the author of Blasphemer (Lit Fest Press 2015), Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX 2012) and four chapbooks. His poems have appeared in many print and online magazines including Poetry International, RHINO, Contrary,DIAGRAM, Confrontation, Altered Scale, Gargoyle, and PANK. He is a Professor of English at Joliet Junior College where he teaches creative writing, Shakespeare, and film.

4 Comments

Matthew A. Hamilton on July 21, 2011 at 9:13 am

Enjoyed the poem. Especially like the line, “The world gives birth to triplets.”
- Bill Yarrow on July 21, 2011 at 8:57 pm
  
  Thanks, Matthew!
Martha on July 22, 2011 at 4:07 am

Love this, the whole concept of standing before a door and not entering. It’s true. The last line is brilliant.
- Bill Yarrow on July 23, 2011 at 1:46 am
  
  Thank you for your kind words, Martha.