What mysteries lie behind
  That old green wooden door:
    Carved elaborately 
     In bygone days?
 
On a street that features only sights
   Both newer and more decrepit,
   It stands out as a grand entrance 
     That begs something special 
      Beyond.

I’d hate to think it’s just 
   Old paint cans —
     Half empty and congealed 
      Beyond usefulness.

I doubt it’s a brothel or speakeasy —
         Too silent…
   But a vault of lost masterpieces,
     Inhabited by a hairy-legged spider,
     Might not be too much to ask.