Every morning that door is in my view;
The iron gate rusted but reminiscent of glory days.
I prefer to walk the other direction,
Past 1214 with its smiling cement lions, welcoming, whimsical
I smile back in spite of myself.
But no, mornings would not be for that.
It was to the park and green lawns beckoning a run, the toss of a ball.
Maybe if one were lucky, a friendly neighbor with treats to share.
Five years going round back, past that locked door.
Habits linger until today.
Time to sweep and put the dog bowl in the trash.
This post inspired by and photo prompt provided by: Friday Fictioneers at Rochellewisoff.com.
Clare Graith 