A man hunching into the weather
steps around my trash can
which has tipped over
in the driven wind.
His face hidden by collar and hat,
he seems an empty coat.
Snow flies like an enchantment
at the window. It sets the front door to rattling,
and then there's nothing
but landscape, as if the man never passed.
The door shakes with anger--no, it's regret.
Don't forget me, don't forget me.
So what do you say to a door that shakes at the lintel?
No matter, the door won't care, and
there's no closure and no closing out
the cold--no appeasing its hard knocking
like knuckle on wood. The old door persists
in its indifference, and pitted and scarred,
it rattles like bones through every winter,
spring and fall, and no one ever comes.
Finally, on a day in late spring, a cold day
when we're all disappointed, I conclude
it wants to glimpse a soul, wants a life
to pass through it, to leave behind the residue
of fingerprints, the warm inspiration of breath,
something more than an empty coat
blowing by on the gray street.
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