In Doors
We depend on hardware, waking
from the net of springs and frame,
descending the stairs that rise
and shine into our private
places. We give no more thought
to the jamb, the knob, the lock,
except when we misplace the key.
We hear, pay no attention
to, the hinge squeaking in its
own corner of self-imposed
isolation. We carry
our own weight and take nothing
for granted that we can’t see.
The latch, the chain, the little
people standing on the porch
as seen through the peephole who
lift the knocker, ring that bell.
Our inability to
open up and let them in.