Front Door

Front Door

It swings on its hinges and 1 feel in control
as I usually do this side of the threshold.
In the mirror here in the airlock of a porch
between two doors with pebble thick glass
1 catch a glimpse of my confident self
preparing a greeting of nonchalant surprise;
but then at the blurred hint of someone unknown
standing in wait beyond the outer door frame,
these's a sliver of doubt about what happens next when 1 come face to face with whoever's outside.

For there'u a universe beyond oar safe homes
designed and honed and perfected,
piping in pictures of accepted mankind
along with the water and power and gas.
Likely it's a cold caller, for Mammon or Jesus,
and twice as hard to dismiss on the doorstep
as those on the phone you freeze out
with the push of a switch.

Right now the door is still moving
on its well oiled axis
and that figure before me has yet to resolve.
1 can tell only they're unknown and reflect on
how strange the world that's been left for us is:
I would never expect a monarch with a gun
or a gangster hot on the run,
but before 1 have time to properly see,
Possibilities like these shoot through my mind.
It's disturbing for one who treasures his quiet;
yet each time the bell rings,
1 pat down my cup
blindly trot out m the door like a dog,
not really sure what the question might be,
what 1 will say
or who it is for.

Peter Keeble