The Door
Peeling splintered wood,
rust and creeper - a door.
When pushed, it dragged on the ground,
opening a gap just enough for a boy
to slip through.
Inside, partly mulched newspapers,
their edges still dry enough
to flap in the wind.
There are other misprints,
dead birds smudged by decay
desiccated wings
trembled by feathering gusts.
There is no house,
only foundation and rubble.
Sinewy weeds, bacon rinds
and other grinds
spiral among overgrown stems,
casting parasitic shadows.
Then a real find;
a plastic pen with a lady on it.
If you turned it upside down
her clothes fell off.
He felt that a door
had ushered him through
to where the flightless flew,
a place where the world of adults
became open graves.
That night,
he looked at the naked lady,
seeing her more as a door
than any plaything.
A door
he now curiously pushed against.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
