Pocket Door
April 4 2022
The pocket door
slips seamlessly into the wall,
like the flat of a hand
into a silk vest.
It makes a soft rumbling sound
on finely milled ball-bearings,
has a nifty pop-up latch
I never lock.
Such a clever use of cramped space.
So practical
and ship-shape;
like one of those clever galleys
on a small boat
that's more doll house than cookery.
There is also a garden window
breakfast nook
Murphy bed.
A secret closet
tucked in under the stairs;
where the ceiling has a sharp downward slope,
and you can sit
in the dark cozy space,
cross-legged
tucked into the wedge.
A modest house
on a large wooded lot.
No great hall
or vaulted ceiling,
no big restaurant kitchen
where no one bothers to cook.
Where the front door opens out;
so when it gets blocked
by heavy snow
we're happy to wait for the thaw.
Where we sit
in the glow of a fire
and feel at home.
Where we fit
like a pocket door
tucked safe within its walls.
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