Yesterday the hurst pulled up 

at the US Supreme Court

as people outside

in perfect black suits & masks

& crowned RBG shirts

watched the American flag-clad coffin

enter the building

with 6 former law assistants shuffling

holding the beloved coffin

The fountains continued to flow

the wind still tripped, to blow

upon the silent mourning heads outside 

The officials practiced social distancing

in a choreographed walking dance

upon the steps of the court

paying homage & respects

to a fiery angel of law.

How did the door feel, 

constantly pressed against walls,

as the entire world went through it,

important, yet invisible?

Does it know the whole structure 

of the house, or room

hinges upon its participation?

Often, the inhabitants are dismissive:

they slam, they bolt, they lock 

themselves away from the rest of the world,

using doors as forts, conduits, walls,

so others can’t come in—

They constantly come knocking about

waiting on the other side,

wanting some attention, 

so they wouldn’t be forgotten  

“We hear ya knockin’ but you can’t come in”

And the ones who are chosen

to enter; will they respect the household?

Or will they barrel inside, crazy-eyed,

leaving stains of excrement or blood

on the handle? Or will they annoy 

the house-keeper, with their cigarettes 

and their endless chatter?

They linger by the door-jamb, wanting to come in.

Or are they dear friends, who remember

not to slam the door, who remember 

not to lock it behind them, who

sometimes brings the sunshine in?   

Coffee and tea is brewed,

long conversations ensue–

Who will be the visitors today?

Or will the door still be closed,

ignored and alone,

trying to hold everything together?