Door

Another cold day, over grey

and I take the sandpaper in unsteady hands,

to smooth the edges of an old door,

unhung for months now, leaving folk free 
to walk between our rooms,

scattering their remarks like bird seed

for two lost children to follow.

Later, when I get that door up,

another turn of the screw,
and the box of tools handed to you,

we’ll shut it and plan for a lock

fast enough and firm,

to keep our heat in.