White Stone Journal

I.

The door has closed;

your house is dark;

the curtains drawn.

I know you are in

there, hiding

in an inside room

with no windows.

I knock

but you do not open.

I ask for entry

but you will not receive me.

How can you be so cruel?

II.

It is you who are cruel,

I let you in to be my friend

but you

never thought me good enough.

Even now,

you hold tools in your hands,

your rough hands,

brutal tools, tools to tear down:

hammers to break me

and bars to pry

my treasures from my house.

Some of your work

was welcome,

but you went too far,

and I am hurt,

and afraid that you

will leave me

homeless.

 III.

It is true.

I have utterly destroyed

some of your house.

You can mend the walls;

paint over the damage;

sit on the broken chair

and sing loudly

to drown out my song.

But you will know

deep down

that your house

is a prison.

It is true.

I would leave you

nothing.

And having nothing,

there would be

no reason to stay

where you are.

And nothing to keep you

from living

with me.

William E. Rushman, February 1998

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