A door floats alone down a dark river, trying to piece together its past. It recalls lovers who once leaned against it, whispering and kissing for hours, but also the fight that ended with a thrown shoe and a slam. Thousands of hurried comings and goings blur behind it — years of early mornings and late nights, of big plans and money to be made. Now, unmoored and half-asleep, the door drifts like an island. The moon reaches for the doorknob, burns its fingers, and retreats; the door stays silent, dreaming. The little fishes dismiss it all with a knowing aside, but their gossip only deepens the sense of something lost. Far off, a bell rings, then a shot is fired. The poem feels like a hazy, melancholy reverie — an ordinary object becomes a quiet vessel for fractured memories and a life it can no longer reach. Instead of finding home, it moves the wrong way, carrying all that human warmth and friction away into the current.
The Wrong Way Home — Summary
All night a door floated down the river. It tried to remember little incidents of pleasure from its former life, like the time the lovers leaned against it kissing for hours and whispering those famous words. Later, there were harsh words and a shoe was thrown and the door was slammed. Comings and goings by the thousands, the early mornings and late nights, years, years. O they've got big plans, they'll make a bundle. The door was an island that swayed in its sleep. The moon turned the doorknob just slightly, burned its fingers and ran, and still the door said nothing and slept. At least that's what they like to say, the little fishes and so on. Far away, a bell rang, and then a shot was fired.