Arun Kolatkar, The Door

A prophet half brought down
from the cross.
A dangling martyr.

Since one hinge broke
the heavy medieval door
hangs on one hinge alone.

One corner drags in dust on the road,
The other knocks
against the high threshold.

Like a memory that only gets sharper
with the passage of time,
the grain stands out on the wood

as graphic in detail
as a flayed man of muscles who can’t find
his way back to an anatomy book

and is leaning against
any old doorway to sober up
like the local drunk.

Hell with the hinge and damn the jamb
the door would have walked out
long long ago

if it weren`t for
that pair of shorts
left to dry upon its shoulders.

Arun Kolatkar, The Door

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