A Screen Door Slamming

Oh, our mothers’ cries

and laments of “how many times

have I told you not to slam

the door?” and the extremes

to make sure we complied, opening

and closing, quietly and gently,

one hundred times, and again,

one hundred more, and again and again,

though we never learned, never stopped,

the screen door slamming behind us

hurrying out and hurrying in, “I’m home”;

and ours, too, our cries and laments

in later years, adult years, parents

ourselves, crying to our children,

“How many times,” who, like us,

hurry in and hurry out, the screen

door slamming behind them;

and our guilt, too, even now when,

slipping from our grasp, the door

bursts out loud, loudly set free,

the resounding slam of the screen door

and the sharp ring of wood on wood

shouting out, but that feeling diminishes

with age, receding now, taking us

back toward those childhood days

when a slammed door, a door slammed

was but our own shout, calling out

that we were here, “I’m home! as now,

hurrying in, “I’m home” echoing, though,

these days in empty rooms, leaving

us remembering the slam of the screen door,

“how many times have I told you?”

the sharp ring of wood on wood, calling out,

reminding us now of what we have lost,

again and again reminding us,

like a door slammed shut behind us.