Poem to Forgotten Old Doors
Old building on East Street near Buzz’s stinky crab. Some think it’s beautiful, others, just drab.
Many tread these thresholds, worn like tattered lace.
Rude address update in a compelling space.
Green’s a fitting color for a door, so is white.
Kernels of romance in dilapidation, hint at the intent of this creation.
How many souls passed through this door? Closed for good or will there be more?
Echos of enterprise, hope and laughter, dreams and wishes that bathed the rafters.
Speedy technologies permeate mine.
And at the end of yesterday’s trail, a small piece of squash sat on a rail.