Dana
Gioia
This is the world in which he lives:
Four walls, a desk, a swivel chair,
A doorway with no door to close,
Vents to bring in air.
There are two well-marked calendars,
Some pencils, and a telephone
The women at the front desk answer
Leaving him alone.
There is a clock he hardly sees
Beside the window on the wall.
It moves in only one direction,
Never stops at all.
Outside the February wind
Scrapes up against the windowpane,
And a blue-green land is fading,
Scarred by streaks of rain.
The phones go off. The files are locked.
But the doorway still is lit at night
Like the tall window of a church
Bleached in winter light.
Sometimes the shadow of his hand
Falls from his desk onto the wall
And is the only thing that moves
Anywhere at all.
Or else he will drive back at night
To walk along the corridor
And, thinking of the day's success,
Trace his steps once more,
Then pause in a darkened stairway
Until the sounds of his steps have ceased
And stroke the wall as if it were
Some attendant beast.
"The Man in the Open Doorway" copyright
1986 by Dana Gioia. Reprinted from Daily Horoscope with
the permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota. CAUTION:
Users are warned that this work is protected under copyright laws
of the United States, and that downloading is strictly forbidden.
For information concerning rights via any medium, contact Graywolf
press, 2402 University Avenue, St. Paul, MN 55114, (651)641-0077,
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