How often did you stand
at the front door of your
20 Church Street, fumbling
with your keys, refusing
the cold, thinking of all
20 Church Streets, all their
owners and tenants, oak
doors and painted doors, some
elegant, and some whose
elegance only their
owners knew? Who had work
days that stretched far into
night? Who thought of patients,
knowing they would struggle
for weeks? Who made mental
notes about Tuesday’s class?
Who prayed for church members
who missed Sunday’s worship?
Which ones worried about
their geometry grade?
Who prepared for war? Who
prepared for Peace? Who stood
at that front door, fumbling
with their keys, refusing
the cold; who gave the door
its necessary shove —
with hands and hands and hands,
skin in its glorious
colors — knowing we are all
more alike than different?
