Pocket Poem #2: The Corridor

In the late evenings

and early mornings

of spring and summer,

we walk a route

between my house

and yours. This path

has become our secret corridor.

The streets, the stores,

the bars, the houses

along the way

are so familiar to me now,

that I can feel them there,

each one rising

in my mind’s eye,

even with both eyes closed,

walking blindfold

in the day or night.

Orientation:

the eros of pathfinding,

the directions we walk,

the things we reach out for,

the magnetic field

that draws our feet

to amble along

certain roads

and certain streets—

earth and heaven’s electricity,

until we find

that the course we’ve tread

is grooved so deep

with our repeated steps

that we no longer need

to think twice

about what it is,

or where it is,

that we are being led to:

We are home.

The house has a lock

and we both have the key.

The street signs dim.

We both know that we

are here together,

and the light is on,

the bed is made,

the toothbrushes—

one for you, one for me—

are in their place.