the door

Life as a door is a cross one
people pushing past as if you
are an obstacle, or an annoyance.
Black boots coated kick at me
scuffing angrily as they
splash mud on my mud splash.

These passers-by leave their marks
in many ways on this portal.
Their dents enraged by
sole upon soul.
So the walk on by me, and push
on in their haste to
get where they are going.

Vanilla milkshake spills, and
dog spittle smears on my skin
dry into the scabby etch-o-sketch
of my existence.  My hinges ache
and creak, and stiffly release
my swinging soul to cross
one more cold path to freedom.