Locked

Locked

Water heater, closet full of boxes full

of catalogues, closet full 

of dusty snow-coats hoping for 

a chance, a tiled bathroom floor. 

"So many doors, but I can't open them.” 

He says it like a fact, that since

his mother told him no, then no, 

that basements aren’t for those 

in dinosaur pajamas pants. 

 I close my book, glance 

up to say, Just open them,

or, Just trust her, and both seem
wise, so silence— 

hanging in the balance,

we stare. The doors

hold close their hands, and wait.