After a while wandering miles—the Speaker of this poem
can't help but notice
that his favorite place to enter
always has a red door,
which always opens inward.
So much better!—he thinks,
than having to rear-back
and tear a new hole
by ripping some cold stainless lever,
and then regain his balance
before stammering into the place like a whirlwind,
with no time to spare, even for repairing
the silly abrupt
slice of his damage behind him.
By contrast,
at this place—the whole thing always seems to begin
by bowing.
Then, just enough, he clenches,
then eases, then
gives the barest little push,
and then—rejoices;
basking in the feeling
of having been automatically ushered inside
by that last puff of his breath, into this precious
soft womb of familiar space—where he invariably feels
his dark tired feet
have been waiting,
upturned, since long
before having—actually arrived there.
