a poem a day for a year #329

by Amy Turn Sharp


I don't have a lock on my bathroom door.
None of the rooms in this old house have locks.
Skeleton keys lost long ago by movers or buyers or children.
So I barricade myself in the bathroom like a bandit.
Push my back up against the thick door.
Sit on the floor.
Feet straight out like a doll.
Hands in hair.
This is what it's like in the middle of life.