Door Through Time

Rich, dark wood, sticky to the touch.
A warm scent fills my nose;
the varnish is still wet.
The new metal hinges glint,
the mist from my fingertips fading.
The acrid varnish stings my tongue,
the sticky brown clings to my hands.
One final turn of the screwdriver;
the brass knob is fixed in place.
A sigh escapes my lips,
misting the brass knob and hinges.
It is the sigh of the victorious.
Many days I have toiled.
Many hours I have worked.
I have sawn and hammered.
I have sanded and brushed.
Now my work is complete.
Now I will understand.
It is beautiful.
It will be glorious.


Foul, dim wood, oozing and tacky.
A bitter smell hurts my nose;
the varnish is still wet.
Rusted metal hinges groan,
Dirtied by probing fingers.
The girl through the door wrinkles her nose;
she stares at my brown hands.
She will create this very door;
she will stand where I stand now.
A sigh escapes my lips,
blowing her papers across the room.
It is the sigh of the defeated.
Many days I have toiled.
Many hours I have worked.
I have sawn and hammered.
I have sanded and brushed.
She has yet to complete that work.
She will understand;
It is pointless.
It is not glorious.