Waiting on the other side
of the Charles
was the house in Cambridge;
simple as a grade school project,
a shoebox upended and four windows
sliced out with a Stanley knife.
The metal fence came waist high
and the front yard split
into two rectangles,
pages in an open book
where seasons would be tossed
upon the lawn:
the rain, the sun,
the leaves, the snow;
like sheets thrown on a bed
and torn off again.
Every night I’d make my way there,
open the gate,
up the walk,
bang on the closed door
of his heart.
Published in Perihelion, Fixed & Free Anthology
Photo by Walter Gaspar on Unsplash