Doors in the Night.

Doors in the Night


by james bezerra



Doors dream of running from their hinges.

Of fleeing down the street, in the dead of night.

You can just barely see the pale streetlight yellow glow

glint off a knobs,

off glass,

of lacquered wood

as they all make their break for it.

A stampede of doors. And a strange awkward wooden thumping;

the sound of all those doors running

echoes back to you,

through your empty front door frame,

which gapes with sadness

as you gape with confusion,

and some small bit of admiration.

“Run door, run,” you whisper as

you wonder where your door is off to.

 
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