Some with porcelain knobs cold
As eggs in the hand and veined blue.
Others kept shut with a length of wire
Wound round a big-headed nail.
Some with locks impregnable as the locks
On the diaries of nosey mothers’ daughters.
Others locked by nothing more than
A cinder block or a leaned two-by-four.
Some opening into living rooms hung
With bad paintings of rustic scenes.
Others opening into cellars where
Bags of seed and blocks of salt are stored.
Some swinging open on oiled hinges
Of intricate ironwork at the faintest touch.
Others hanging on one last hinge,
The screws rusted right out of the others.
Though all these doors are different,
Their thresholds are the same.
Someone is always just about to violate them.