* Imaged not owned by me
The hard door was velvet under my finger tips,
Its key hold spoke to me, its metal moving curiously, as if it was talking to a friend,
“I smell something precious. It’s bit musty and rake, much like rooting word, I suppose.”
My nose caught sight of it, in that moments, making my face scrunch up in disgust.
I was too timorous of Frank’s feelings to tell him it was him,
The smell was magically beautiful if you thought about it.
Frank was in the middle of nowhere.
Somethin’ like a blank slant, not exactly off the hinges.
Every door had a bad day; it was Frank’s bad day.
“That’s as cool as a dog in circus outfit.”
The velvet door of knowledge told me that.
He was soft like a pillow, that door.
He walked with the confidence and swagger of a top cat.
Savannah was all impressed.
The door would walk down that road and never come back.
Obscene Frank walked the alley with pride.
It amazingly true how he stood, with no accessories to cover his hard polished wood, his polished knocker and walking he stood.
I think the French call it demarche.
“Why are you still here, my dear?”
The door stood on the corner of Hershey Street and Main,
It had not been opened in years,
And it longed for affection.
