The Old Man Who Couldn't Open A Door Convincingly


Between wall and glass
in the company of those growing fast
I stopped and placed myself neatly between
time and a second and a paused moment.

Through the slit, akin
to a forest trail, overgrown
and evergreen lit,
a man broke his back
and bowed to his car.

His key worked in,
deeper than it should’ve gone
and both got stuck in a perpetual pose,
cast in the stone of everything that keeps us going,
the tick of a watch-hand against the time numbers’
thread at the circumference side. 

Whether he heard the basil grow and creek
or the tomato plants dying in the heat
something in him waited to go on and continue.