When sometimes you paint a door
because you’ve left it too long,
having suddenly seen streaks and thumbprints,
smears of routine that have dulled
the original gloss, and you think to yourself,
maybe I should have chosen flat.
Or at least an eggshell finish, one that could be washed.
Tone down the soil and glare of everyday touches,
the wear they bring to the varnish and how just being
in stagnant air can mute anything’s shine. Anyone’s.
Never mind. Use what’s left over from last time.
Put it on thick and play heavy metal while you do.
Comb your hair in the same style you wore
when you were louder, more rebellious, eager to show
the world how smoothly you moved, closing or widening
only to those who knew where the room was you guarded.
Jamming when you felt like it. Creaking open,
as if you were haunted. Throwing light, reflection,
into an otherwise empty hallway.
I wouldn’t change a thing.
-Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
This poem and others recently appeared in Ruby's Lyric.
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
