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Mishaps



After many mishaps,
to reach a great wooden door
with a large gnarly knocker
of iron, of bronze,
in the shape of an angry face,
and to recognize that face from your mirror,
and to know you must grab hold of the cold
metal and rap it against the wood
if you are ever to proceed—
who wouldn't feel suddenly sad?
Who wouldn't cry?

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.