Each door keeps secrets.
I hold my breath the moment
before I reach, touch,
Turn the knob, push an inch,
Then wide open. I know,
For instance, the back hall
Will be dim, innocently furnished
With brooms, dust pan, wine rack,
The door to the little elevator
That comes from the garage.
But. There could be a body
Slumped against the wall,
An intruder waiting
To spring, enter and steal,
A flood leaping or fire raging.
Instead, so far, I find
Silence edged by the even hum
Of the refrigerator
On the other side of the wall,
Comforting tools of keeping house.
Until I come, next time.
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I love this insertion of terror into the mundane. You're very good at this. There's something so perversely satisfying about a leaping flood and a raging fire so near to the even hum of a refrigerator. Wonderful!
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