Our front door is wood; heavy and thick.
It is too small.
On three sides, panes of cold air
filter lazily into the room.  

It is opened
by a brass thumb latch
that clicks,
locked by
a sticky dead bolt
we keep tethered
to the apocalypse.

Open door policy,
survival strategy,
fear of the unknown.
We have debated semantics,
but we have never locked the door.