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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 }


the whispers of a past

so near it wants to seize


murmurs that bite the air

you breathe

words glazed with sugared poison

peer down from the doorway slanted


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


pass age

past age

“sell by...”

Nothing ever truly disappears


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