How did the door feel

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-jam, 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?

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