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who's at the door
by Charlie Morganall the noise and clatter
brought me to the peep-hole;
it was someone from my past.
wasn't sure to open the door,
he was lank, boney, and gray;
his coat swallowed his frame.
he rang the doorbell, waited.
carrying a picture of someone;
who was young once; now older.
opening the door, wind howling,
i offered a warm house, seat;
shoulder shrugging, he sat,
turning to me, i saw daddy;
gray, crusty, creaking bones;
now he's old, dead to the world.
in his hands were pictures;
yesterdays, tomorrows fell out
as he thumbed thru all sizes.
10/30/2007 Posted on 10/30/2007
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kathleen Wilson on 10/30/07 at 05:19 PM ooooh haunted by our past and future in such a personal way and with all that clatter... the creaking bones of your yesterday is what will give the little tomorrows their flesh and bones too... ah and then there's today through the peephole too! Booh! |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 10/31/07 at 02:37 PM I like the use of the door, particularly the peep hole, that makes this reconnect, with the figure outside quite ghost like. Both past and portent here with the pictures, and a great last line. |
| Posted by Mara Meade on 11/01/07 at 01:28 PM The last two stanzas are perfect. An incredible poem, Charlie. |
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