A keyhole
lies in a weathered door.
Faded and splintered, heavy on wrought hinges.
The young man
looks through the hole
in misery; he kneels painfully.
There she sits
before a shattered mirror
weeping but he doesn’t understand.
He looks left
center, right, up, down
tries to see the rest of the room.
Door blocks sight
he looks for the key
it was safe in a box but the box is lost.
She cries still
he wishes he could
come inside, the only place where she can smile.
But now the
paint peeling from yellowed
walls reveals crumbling mortar underneath.
Maybe if
he cleared his head
he could find his sachet and open the door.
He can’t leave
he sits in a barren hall
with a window six stories from the ground.
Behind him
the passage extends
into a cold white fog. He feels damp.
benknauff 