Door, I have knocked, pushed,
licked and, for a year, stroked
your veins smooth as varnish.
My knuckles are hard, black beetles.
We were children first
when I saw your blue sway
into a cottage on the coast.
Each day the repetitive sea
sneaking close.
Door, you have been painted many things:
argument red, family yellow, divorce brown.
I too have been locked and pushed
shut, hung on frames and forced to gaze
through creaking day and slamming night
at the parked silver car and children
high on birch. Door, I too have stared
at my own brass, have become wood
and squeaked with need. Weathered, pale,
but still here. So we can peer through gloam
and into each other, honest as hinge
and nail, can open and call this home.