"All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been: it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books."
-Thomas Carlyle

by Paul Lytle

I never know, approaching her flat,
whether or not I’ll have to call
to have her open the gate, or if
that gate today has simply stalled

open, letting me though without
the hassle of typing the code to her
apartment, waiting for reply,
and watching the gate then turn.

The building’s old — once rich, no more.
I’m sure the broken gate once worked
quite well, but it has aged as much,
as does all. Now men may lurk

into the place when once again
the gate is jammed. A hundred times
I’ve been here now, but, oh, the first
is clearest still within my mind.

We talked ’til five upon her couch —
admitted little crushes we
each had for one another, then kissed
so gently when I had to leave.

A week had passed before I once
again did see this gate; the day
after my first visit I called,
but she only wished to say

she wasn’t ready to date, and then
hung up with hurried farewells,
and neither spoke for quite some time.
And then into old habits we fell.

And since we’ve bounced between
being a couple, friends, or some
strange hybrid. Daily she
will change her mind, one day we’re one,

and then she’s not returning my calls.
Today she called, but I can’t know
her reasons. I can only hope
the gate today will not be closed.