The Door

Peeling splintered wood, rust and creeper. When pushed, it dragged on the ground, opening a gap just enough for a boy to slip through. Inside, only foundations and rubble partly mulched newspapers, their edges still dry enough to flap in the wind. Dead pigeon smudged into rot, desiccated wings trembled by feathering gusts. Bacon rinds and coffee grinds among the weeds; a jumble of parasitic shadows. Then a real find; a plastic pen with a lady on it. If you turned it upside down her clothes fell off! Alone, looking at the naked pen-lady, the boy seeing her more as a doorway than any plaything. A threshold to curiously push against.