My apartment door didn’t need painting
until overspray dotted it into pointillist
dream: dark blue muted to lighter shade
with off-white spray. My irritation rises
with the heat, missing friends, missing work.
I check other complex buildings–we share
oversprayed doors. The painter is done
in fifteen minutes–it’ll take longer to dry.
“You have a red door,” he says. I can’t mask
surprise, have to look, see a new brick red
portal. My understanding shifts–my door
did need painting. This door is portal
always to greater beauty and insight–
I need only open it.
Andrew Shattuck McBride
“Portal” is my August 15th poem for the postcard poetry project. I used an antique card view titled “Tulip Fields, Western Washington” and mailed it to Marycharles M. of Fort Worth, Texas.
Blessings to Marycharles and all, Andy
Oh, this pleases me. This pleases me greatly.
Thank you Jennifer.
After whining for the past couple of days and much of this morning, it’s quite good to have a new brick red door, errr portal.
I continue to learn more from my reactions about *me* than about anything else.