Doors — Who Knows

You never know

what lies behind a door.

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That’s the point.

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A door may conceal

what was never

meant to be seen.

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The odds and ends,

the remnants, 

of some magnum opus.

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The mundane residue

of what once

was grand.

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An open door may suddenly

reveal three levels of 

brick arches,

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piggyback one on the other, 

framing hidden loggias,

backdrops to an unexpected courtyard. 

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Those hidden gardens,

alive in spring

with bird calls,

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are meant only 

for the eyes

of an entitled few.

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Some harbour wisteria.

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Nature run rampant

within the walls.  

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There are treasures

and castoffs

behind those doors. 

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A garage

can be the entrance 

to a warren of rooms. 

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The underpinnings

of the city

that was and is.

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Thoughts go to

Piranesi and Roman ruins

or to his phantasmagorical prisons.

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To Frank Stockton’s question

of behind which door one finds the lady,

or where the tiger lurks.

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Every five steps

there’s another door

waiting to be opened.

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Empty chairs, a miniature altar,

mutely awaiting worshippers,

promising food for the soul.

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Two doors down

well-worn wooden treads

lead to an offering of pasta Carbonara.

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You never know what lies hidden, silent and unseen,

behind one door and then another, 

waiting to be opened.

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Or perhaps closing,

on the past, or on the future, 

recent or remote.

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