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Small Door by Daniel A. Rabuzzi




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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