Small ode to lost time


Door that opens. Footsteps. Door that closes.
The sour smell of wooden cupboards and the way
light in old buildings squeezes itself to dead
against walls, becomes documentary, unreal
like a fetus in a glass jar. Door that opens.

(But why always this lost time as my strongest
memory: the walking, the waiting, biting nails, 
staring at floor tiles - and the rest, 
that what they tend to call key moments,
a list, a messed up chronology?)

Door that closes. Statement. Footsteps.
Pat on the back. The miss matched color
of my shoes.