There is a creaking door 

at the back of every room.

It opens and shuts 

with surprising frequency, 

enabling spurts of movement

quicker than you can say 

stop. By now, you are able to count

the number of rooms you’ve entered:

first, the light-sprayed delivery room;

playgrounds; palaces abundant in pink,

and then blue; the chocolate factory; 

classrooms; 

closets shrouded in dark;

there is a time and place 

for everything. Map lost in dilated time,

you wander down winding corridors

in search of the next room,

but there are ones you’ve yet to leave.

Rooms with missing doorknobs 

and a remiss owner, too; 

so caught up in taking up space 

you delay calls to the handyman.

He refuses the job anyhow. 

When it comes time to retire, 

the door frame bends down

like a mother in distress,

wrapping around the wrist that has 

overslept; late for school, again

(but you so long for it to stay.)

At every hour, a door closes. 

You play entrance and exit

until every morning is lost

and then realised again.

A new room appears: 

Who’s there?

The future.

It doesn’t stop for goodbyes.

Image: Margarita via Pexels