at my door

I was recently moved to recollect an encounter in Venice.

at my door

I liked the way you showed up at my door.
announced. planned. as you were and wanted me to know.
no parsley on the side. comfortable in your skin,
knowing that the person I was interested in
was more than the cosmetics rack at the mall.
no hint of shadows or Gordian knots to decipher,
nothing held back, not even the perplexities.
warm to the touch. eager to share.
your Holly Hunter accent making me smile
as you spoke to me of everything, without guile,
without the forced confessions of false intimacies.
and you left as you came. to plan. leaving me
hungry for something I would never have,
but comforted by knowing there are such things
in this world that are comfortable to hold.
and sometimes, I might find them at my door.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.