“The door is closed”
Or so the wall read;
It had been open
Before I turned my back.
Just for a moment,
In weakness, I turned away
And walked up the red brick path.
By the garden sat a plantain leaf
But the key was nowhere to be seen.
When I reached the white picket fence,
Which from the porch had looked so lovely,
I saw only the dirty streets beyond.
So I turned again and walked back to the door,
This time through the yard,
But the door was closed,
As the wall announced in red paint,
Stark, against the dark brown
And white trim of the door.