Passing, they pause and smile and kiss my cheek
then run away, entering rooms where I
can’t go. I call to them, but they don’t speak.
They lock their doors, never explaining why.
I sit by firelight, hear a guitar’s soft
hum from one closed space. I’d swear there’s crying
within the music. From a sealed-off loft
a trace of laughter, and sensual sighing
rising from the basement. Why don’t I leave
this negative nunnery, this teasing
mansion of rude solitude? I still cleave
to each smile and kiss, find each pause pleasing
though brief as a breath. It’s like, I suppose,
purgatory’s promise. Well, so it goes.
Roger Armbrust
September 1, 2010
