Have to admit that I am running low on material just sitting around as far as short stories/poetry to show here. Mainly it’s older stuff that I might be interested in publishing someday – my main focus has been novels.
Anyway, read this if you want and see what you think.
Down the grey hall, fluorescents
flickering more and more as the clock hands
I walk past the doors.
Some are French, others
industrial with piston handles,
others are American Revival
(when is that coming?)
Years back, I remember
that all of the doors were open,
and you were able to walk in.
It wasn’t quite as easy to walk in
some of the doors, however.
There were doors that led to long
flights of staircases, or
balance-beam narrow bridges,
Some of the doors had come from bank vaults,
so it took my shoulder and my bulk
to get it open.
Sometimes I ducked my head behind the door
and found empty desks or rows of kids playing all board games I’d gotten tired of when I was 5, so I didn’t walk in.
I walked into other doors, though, even the occasional vault door or the one where I had to wrestle it open or climb a hyperangle hill.
As I look around now, though,
something has slowly changed.
Every year, I would try the handle of a door and find it locked.
Every year, I’d discover a couple more doors locked, or chained shut.
There were even a few metal doors that
I could see had been freshly welded shut,
the gun-grey solder ice-hot to the touch,
the door handles smashed.
Nowadays, I’d say whenever I stalk the hall,
half of the doors can’t be opened
for one reason or the other.
I’ve realized those closings can’t be helped, that you can only leave the doors open for so long before closing up shop.
The only door that doesn’t seem ready for the lock is the one at the end of the hall.
It doesn’t appear to even have an actual door, just an ornately carved oak doorjam and
ink darkness bleeding out from it.
I always walk down there to the end, but I’ve never looked in and never walked in.
Maybe I’ll have to, when all of the doors
are locked and I’m not able to open
Every time I have fewer doors.
Usually, that makes me sad to tears or makes my nerves raw.
Just recently, however,
I’ve begun wondering if what I will feel when the time comes will be simply relief.
Or, maybe I’ll be able to pick a few locks