Poem About Breaking And Entering, #7

 

by Joel Landfield

 

 

 

I woke up on an overstuffed black leather couch,

feeling like the last third of a 40 oz tastes,

in an apartment I didn’t recognize.

 

An old man in a silk bathrobe was yelling at me.

“Who ARE you?!

“What are you DOING here?!”

His face was turning red,

a vein bulged on his forehead.

 

His wife stood slightly behind him to the left.

She was dressed, lavishly, tastefully.

She had a silk scarf,

fastened with a brooch from Tiffany’s or someplace.

These were clearly rich people.  Everything was

spotless, perfectly placed, looked expensive. They probably

had an interior decorator.

 

Her face was calm, kind.

“HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?!” He screamed.

Sitting up now, I gulped for air like a goldfish.

 

“You don’t know, do you, dear?” She said calmly.

 

“No, ma’am, I don’t. Thank you so much for your hospitality!” I blurted and bolted

for the door.  I was all the way down the hall in

three improbable strides.

 

I had to chuckle to myself as I stopped,

walked slowly back and knocked politely

three times on their door.

 

I had forgotten my shoes.

 

 

 

 

Joel Landfield is a poet and curatorial DJ in the San Francisco Bay Area. He is a mainstay of the Tenderloin Reading Series and has contributed his stories to the Portuguese Artist’s Colony and InsideStorytime.