Monday, January 12, 2009: On The Street…Half Plaid, Paris

Monday, January 12, 2009: On The Street…Half Plaid, Paris

Green Door

There's an old piano and they play it hot, Behind the green door. Don't know what they're doin', but they laugh a lot, Behind the green door. Wish they'd let me in so I could find out what's Behind the green door.

(“Green Door,” Jim Lowe)

For ten years I walked past it without noticing.
Past the coffee shop with its glass and wobbly tables,
The acrid smell a mix between bonfire, gasoline, and soil.

Past the barber shop with the men perched in black leather chairs,
Faces lathered and steaming, heads back and pale necks exposed
Like baby birds with mouths upturned.

Past the outdoor store, stocked with birdseed and feeders,
Fountains to be installed in gardens, wooden

and metal wind chimes that clacked or tinged like rain.

Until one day, I noticed:
A purple, lacquered door, slatted and heavy, with the dull sheen
Of an eggplant. And on the door, a single capital letter: A.

The shutters were always drawn tight, sealed like dragon scales,
And the door remained shut. I never saw that door open,
Nor did I hear any clues about its contents,

But after seeing it, I often stood outside and listened hard,
Ready to take in the first peal of laughter or clink of glasses,
Willing someone to shout and it to reach my ears.