Liminality
is a man standing in the hallway
waiting for one of
both doors
ahead and behind him
to open.
Knowing how the countertops
and embossed dishware,
in the porcelain sink or
stacked behind glass pantry doors,
would look in any light of day,
he tells himself to hope
for the door ahead
to open first.
But he tells himself this
while counting the change,
thumb to forefinger,
the coins now greasy with
fingertip dew,
in the pocket of his gray slacks.
His pants with the sweaty sheen
of too much ironing
under her hand.
image source: myheartscreamsyourname
poem: me
