Door

by J.R. Solonche

Once on its hinges, free to swing
far enough for us to pass
from hall to room, from room to hall again,
then swing back to seal the opening,
the wall of privacy, or of anticipating privacy,
we will not think of it as individual,
this thing separate from the house,
but we will knock on it once, softly,
grasp the knob and enter, saying, "Are you
all right?" or three times each time louder,
saying, "Open the door," or slam it shut,
saying nothing, that saying more anger,
more disappointment than all our words.
But now it leans against the wall,
this simple wood, no hardware anywhere,
taking my paint, taking my thoughts, solid,
stolid, almost free of me, almost free of me.