An old aluminum gate can be found in my friend’s backyard,
a remnant of a chain-link fence that once ran the perimeter of his property.
I love an old gate.
This one stands defiantly open and covered over with tendrils of dead ivy.
Life imitating art, or rather, inanimate life imitating art.
A Chinese moon gate promises transcendence.
My wife inside the house crying, I hope for something of the same
as I pass through my friend’s gate and step into the alley for a cigarette.