by Mark Jackley

The box truck said Commercial
and Industrial Doors,
Baltimore, MD. Just think,
a whole truck full of doors:
barriers and gateways,
secret-keepers, sentries
of “You’re fucking kidding me”
or “Hal, we’re letting you go,”
a load of so-called open-door
policies slamming shut
whenever it suits the suits,
a cargo of sly whispers,
“When’s your husband leaving town?”
and “That bitch said what?”
Imagine a thousand janitors
turning off the lights,
the one in a thousand who
leans back in someone’s chair,
fingers the embroidered
“Billy” on his shirt
and dreams of horses barreling
down the stretch, of winning,
as the night swings open,
door flung wide.