POEM:The Door


The door:

rusty hinges

weathered wood

rhomboidal sag


The lock:

clunky brass


sturdy, shiny, and



Who puts such a sterling lock

on such a pathetic door?


Who could be blamed

for lifting the lock

to feel its heft?


But when the slightest touch

tore the rusty, pointy wood screws

out of the door frame’s rotten wood,

it felt like a burglary in process.


But what could be worth burgling

behind such a sad, worn door?


The only thing worth thieving was the lock,

but it had a rusty hasp & staple dangling from it.


And a lock without a key is a paperweight.

One needn’t turn to a life of crime for a paperweight.

For the defining characteristic of a


is that it be able to sit in place

and not go wandering about.

Anything but a cat can be a paperweight.


The door creaked when I looked inside.

I had to look inside.


Who wouldn’t look inside

to see what was worth guarding

with a big brass lock?


Inside: pure darkness.

Except the back wall,

where light strained through

cracks & slats.


I took two steps into the inky murk,

and plummeted down my own personal rabbit hole.

1 thought on “POEM:The Door

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.