Small Door
Halfway between one corner and the next,
down steps strewn with
twisted paper,
greasy twine,
“going out of business, everything must go,”
remains of a chicken dinner,
droppings, dappled filth
grate ajar,
door unhinged
within, { breathe out }
within
the whispers of a past
so near it wants to seize
you
murmurs that bite the air
you breathe
words glazed with sugared poison
peer down from the doorway slanted
within:
a glint, some flash of light from a bygone era,
neon pale flickering,
slouching forms outlined, with slotted hints
of fingernails elongated, of glistened toothy tongues
stay your eyes
stop your ears
hold your breath
halt your lean into
the doorway small
escape now the imminent fall
passage
pass age
past age
“sell by...”
Nothing ever truly disappears
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