Down the street,
cobblestones lead to a doorway
oak-lined with promise
of breathless ease;
it deserves only to be
opened. I can do this.
Only to be opened – there is
a smallish, oriental man holding
a sign that reads “Only
to be opened.” “I am here,” I say.
Nothing. The smallish, oriental man
just points, “Only to be opened.”
Night has collapsed all around. Irritated,
arrogantly, I grab for the
sign. I’m ready, I demand.
It disappears. Suddenly. Gone. So is the
smallish, oriental man. The door remains closed.
Oak-lined with promise of breathless ease
I am cold. Night is raining. Street language deafening.
A coat is offered. I take it. I stumble
away from the door, thanking him
for his generosity. It is the smallish, oriental man.
But there is no sign. He smiles. “Only to be opened,” he says.
And so the door does open. Breathless ease…immediately