By Ace Boggess
/ Poetry /
I unlock the door.
I open the door.
I step through space
where the door existed.
I close the door behind me.
Where am I in this metaphor?
On my way to work? What job?
On stage? The backdrops
look so genuine I could faint
in the heat of painted light.
Nowhere? Travelling
from one state of being
to the next? I’m lost
in possibilities.
But the door is a real door
in a real wall
with something real
on either side.
Maybe I’m stepping arrogantly
from climate-controlled
comfort zone into nature,
or maybe from one
room to another, one
dull past to an active future.
I don’t have answers.
I’m holding the door open
for someone, anyone at all,
to walk through me.