I go in the wrong door, but I don’t regret it, giving new
meaning to the term, back door man, crowding myself into a place I know I don’t
belong, if not quite the same pleasure going in the front, different, more
intense, feeling the world close in on me with every inch I advance, the moan
of the house as loud as ghosts, shaking the dust from the rafters, a shocking
entrance I ought to feel guilty about, leaving my calling card here on the
hearth in the kitchen and if I can, also in the foyer in the front, letting it
drip out both ends so that she knows I came. I go in the back door, then in the
front as many times as she will let me, and then some.
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