The Broken Hinged Door

By Zoe Pierson

 

It’s seen the good, the battered,

the blessings, and scorn. 

The late nights of sneaking out,

the arrivals of long gone people,

the past, the present, 

the door. 

 

Hinges oiled years ago still squeak,

telling on me quicker than my sister.

The screen that’s withering 

the glass stays shivering 

the bugs, the webs, 

the door. 

 

In my eyes for 18 years, 

but in the house for many more. 

The slams of angry arguments,

the locks against intruders,

the mom, the dad, 

the door. 

 

 

Moving out and on my way,

I give it a good look; that weathered fleeting piece.

Maybe that day, it had had enough 

because when I closed it, gently now

the boom, the crash, 

the door.