Up the steps and through the door,
the one with the lock that has to come out

and to the side so that the brass tongue,
lodged all day in the mouth and now of course rain,

can turn and let me in. I think of Allegra Kent
and how I told you about her the other night

in the dark by the park, trying hard not to
grip too tight your elbow. I wanted to hold you.
Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.