Juanita Rey
Man at the Door
Doorbell rings.
That’s him.
It’s January,
bitter cold out,
sidewalks icy,
but it’s still him.
No flowers,
no chocolates,
and more of a grunt
than a loving greeting.
He’s not that
kind of man.
But he’s strong
and he braved
the weather.
He’s tall
and he showed up
up on time.
He’s mine
and he rings
the doorbell.
There’s my name,
the epithet ‘poet’,
and this is
the third thing
I answer to.
That’s him.
It’s January,
bitter cold out,
sidewalks icy,
but it’s still him.
No flowers,
no chocolates,
and more of a grunt
than a loving greeting.
He’s not that
kind of man.
But he’s strong
and he braved
the weather.
He’s tall
and he showed up
up on time.
He’s mine
and he rings
the doorbell.
There’s my name,
the epithet ‘poet’,
and this is
the third thing
I answer to.