gold, round
it has felt a thousand hands
in sixty years
tomorrow it will be
replaced, the dead door
along with it
the old brass globe
knows nothing of gentrification;
its desecration of memory:
the carpenter who bore its hole
the first child to turn the **** to play;
the last man to yank it in anger
when he felt the bowels of defeat,
the bane of bankruptcy--the effluent epiphany
of eviction
how many tales began with
the spinning of the circle, the opening
of the door, letting in the light
tomorrow, and tomorrow, the door,
the handle, will rest in the landfill, the
graveyard of myriad doorknobs
all with their own stories of auspicious
beginnings, mysterious twists and turns--
plots thickened by the hands of time
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 7:49 PM UTC
gold, round
it has felt a thousand hands
in sixty years
tomorrow it will be
replaced, the dead door
along with it
the old brass globe
knows nothing of gentrification;
its desecration of memory:
the carpenter who bore its hole
the first child to turn the **** to play;
the last man to yank it in anger
when he felt the bowels of defeat,
the bane of bankruptcy--the effluent epiphany
of eviction
how many tales began with
the spinning of the circle, the opening
of the door, letting in the light
tomorrow, and tomorrow, the door,
the handle, will rest in the landfill, the
graveyard of myriad doorknobs
all with their own stories of auspicious
beginnings, mysterious twists and turns--
plots thickened by the hands of time
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