In A Doorway

What can I tell you? I’m standing
In a doorway you will never enter.

It’s January outside.
The snow is falling straight down, heavy.

At work, the coffee’s brewing.
It’s the only perfume here tonight.

Looking out, everything’s white
As a gull’s wing. Silences fall fast.

What can I tell you? I’m standing
In a doorway. Your lips were warm, soft.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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One Response to In A Doorway

Mumble back at me

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