What Happens When I Knock on a Friend's Door

On her open porch
I like the sound of
the wood when I step
with my heavy boots
and I like the chairs

chipped white with leaning
backs and then that one
lonely metal chair

that stands straight up with
the greatest posture,
attentive like a
Buddhist monk and I
KNOCK.KNOCK.KNOCK.KNOCK.KNOCK!

on the glass pane of
the solid door. I
am peeking in when

I see my friend's shoes
in the entry way--
red clogs that remind
me of another
friend who shared her dream

with me about how
she magically leapt
from a window to

a tree and landed
straight down to the ground
right snug into her
comfortable red
clogs just like these ones.

We are surrounded
by triggers that lead
us inside ourselves.

David the Gnome

my sister sits in the recliner
I am on the end of the couch and
James Bond is on TV
interrupting our conversation
and keeping us only to our short memories.
She says I should write a poem
about David the Gnome,
a show we watched when we were little,
she laughs that she doesn't remember it much
just that she loved it oh so much.

but what's strange is my memories
of it are lonely
but I don't say so, though
I can still feel
the rough carpet on my stomach
my elbows pressed to the floor
so long I'd get a pink print
of its texture on my skin
like the grass would give me
on my knees when we'd play
doggies out on the lawn.
I remember the babysitter would be
way back behind me on the
brown and orange plaid couch
that somehow reminded me of the sea
she'd be clutching the remote
while burping a baby dressed in blue
and she'd have me watch soap operas
with her while the other kids were napping
and it was only during the commercials
that she'd put on David the Gnome
and for a swift moment
I'd stop wishing so hard
that my little sister might wake up
so we could play again on the kitchen  floor
with those big colorful Lego blocks that
we didn't have at home.