Joe Dolce: The Days of Real Door-to-Door are Done

The Days of Real Door-to-Door are Done

The days of real door-to-door are done.

Once knocks brought encyclopedias,

sidings, thick wall carpets heralding

wise men with camels, proud stags.

Strangers, in white shirts and ties,

speaking rapidly through screen doors,

of libraries and vacuums.

They squeezed inside for demonstrations.

NO! meant keep talking.

At ten, I was consigned to accordion,

a black-buttoned rental for rehearsal.

I poked Three Blind Mice,

for three blind months, then quit.

My father ordered Classics.

Every month, a new green brick,

gold trim, tiny writing.

Mom never opened them.

Auntie Charlotte read hers (the Britannica),

cover-to-cover, discovering eighty mistakes.

The publisher sent representatives

to consult her before the revision.

Today, phone rings bring

outsourced irritations during tea.

Door knocks solicit charity tins,

smiling solar-panel salesteens.

No one asks to come inside.

NO! still means keep talking.

Joe Dolce