Dee Cohen Poetry

Waiting on the other side
of the Charles
was the house in Cambridge,
simple as a grade school project,
a shoebox upended and four windows
sliced out with a Stanley knife.
The metal fence came waist high
and the front yard split
into two rectangles,
pages in an open book.
Seasons tossed upon the lawn,
the rain, the sun,
the leaves, the snow,
like sheets thrown on a bed
and torn off again.
Every night I'd make my way there--
open the gate,
up the walk,
bang on the cold door
of his heart.
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