He wrote his way through the door (by John Belitsky)

(April 2022. John wrote this poem in all caps in my notebook after reading my Balcony poem. It’s one of the best things anyone has ever written about me. Thanks John. The last line always makes me smile.)

He wrote his way thru the door,
A character animated with free will,
Set loose on pages,
Virgin and unwritten.
He had only half arrived.
His other half slept inert,
In the rare parking lot that was free,
Large enough to hold a bus,
But safe enough to protect her
From the barbaric onslaught
Of Post America
With its desperation, delinquency.
Right now she’s as empty as a widow’s heart
But when they were together
Which is to say always
They were fused together.
One solid-body chassis.
He moved somewhat awkwardly
When he propelled himself
Without the usual assistance
Of an internal combustion engine.
Unfamiliar with the labored speed
Of bipedal locomotion
The space around him seemed to linger unnecessarily.
Or maybe he needed a spliff?
Shouldn’t this scene already have blown by his window,
Rattling past in a blur?
Somewhat impossibly,
He was here,
Wearing a crooked grin that bisected his face like an interstate highway.