Kamaskera The Door I Leave Open

The brass handle is cold through my glove
Behind the door, someone has laid a table for breakfast
I can smell toast. There are two cups
And the knife lies across the butter dish

In another version of this room, the curtains have burned
I remain in the passage
My left shoe has brought mud onto the carpet
The mark occurs in both rooms

I wipe it with my handkerchief
Though neither hostess is here to object
I leave the door open by the width of my hand
I have not finished arriving

There are mornings in which I sit down
Others in which I pass the house without noticing its windows
I remember the weight of the cup from one of them
The toast is cooling here

I remove my gloves
A thread catches on my ring
And I attend to that before doing anything else
It takes longer than it should. The thread survives

Across the table, the empty chair stands slightly crooked
I could straighten it from where I am
Instead, I sit in my own
I leave the door open by the width of my hand

I have not finished arriving
My handkerchief dries beside the plate
The mud has left a brown crescent
Under the other cup, a second crescent is already dry