Answers

 

In the end,

you always have to tread

up those final steps,

the corridor’s walls

crowding your broad shoulders,

the door towering over you

as you try to convince yourself

that all you need is a key to open it,

when, in reality, there’s a tidal wave

lying in wait

behind that final latch

click.

 

And maybe you’re right.

Maybe a key

is a way in,

but you smell mist

behind that warping door

whose peep hole wears

its domesticated scowl

from holding back tears

in your presence,

your keys,

in your hand,

in your pocket.