The Big Door

Massive staircase to minimum space.
Shuttling between orbits of gum.
Sticking to the outside of the inside pages.
Words pink and puckered by habit.
There is no recourse to history’s racecourse.
The favorites will win. The scrappers will show.
The course is long and designed as unending.
The bending of rules is assumed.
There is nothing here within to survive the great without.
Breath is an adventure the living assume.
Nothing says the door cannot come down and end the play.

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I'm a writer living in Massachusetts.