Idles the backrest of an office chair,
Paced alongside a stitching of ragged duct-tape,
Frays fluttering by force of an air conditioned breeze,
Tickling the back of my neck like scattering roaches.
Across the room a slack stutter converses to God
In plain English prayer.
When it’s apparent
Morality transcends language.
There’s a doorknob that captures the sunlight
Like a prism. When the rusted spring clip scrapes the mounting plate
In a soft squeak, a gray man looks over his shoulder at a pondering junky
Faded overlooking a copy of
Sons & Lovers.
Perhaps the gray man is pondering how the world has gone to shit,
Or embracing the notion of a vein once occupied with beveled edges-
Now clean of underground medicine,
Clean enough to embrace Western ingenuity.
The courage involved in waiting for an exit
Is the same endurance needed to find an entrance.
But what about the rest of us
Waiting to hear the door knob sing?