The door:
rusty hinges
weathered wood
rhomboidal sag
The lock:
clunky brass
formidable
sturdy, shiny, and
out-of-place
Who puts such a sterling lock
on such a pathetic door?
Who could be blamed
for lifting the lock
to feel its heft?
But when the slightest touch
tore the rusty, pointy wood screws
out of the door frame’s rotten wood,
it felt like a burglary in process.
But what could be worth burgling
behind such a sad, worn door?
The only thing worth thieving was the lock,
but it had a rusty hasp & staple dangling from it.
And a lock without a key is a paperweight.
One needn’t turn to a life of crime for a paperweight.
For the defining characteristic of a
paperweight
is that it be able to sit in place
and not go wandering about.
Anything but a cat can be a paperweight.
The door creaked when I looked inside.
I had to look inside.
Who wouldn’t look inside
to see what was worth guarding
with a big brass lock?
Inside: pure darkness.
Except the back wall,
where light strained through
cracks & slats.
I took two steps into the inky murk,
and plummeted down my own personal rabbit hole.
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on December 11, 2016.
