Tuesday Poem: “Push” by David Gregory

Push

He has found the green door at last,

in a faded, jaded street.

And, slightly askew, it reflects

the slant of his memories.

Behind it, there might be a childhood,

if he could only reach the handle,

and against the glass

(the sunlight blood of stained glass roses)

there is the shadow of his father.

And the hallway builds back

into those small rooms.

In that one the faces turned

like flowers to the sun of her entrance.

That beautiful woman who spilt his love

easily as tea, and he only

the second best china...