All The Red Doors






Sam R. (Creative 1)
are similar in height.






Poetry Final
The color of the paint is generally the same,
though it’s shockingly different when one
so deep is compared with
one so thin and shallow.
Their thicknesses vary,
some so wide that a family of five
would have no trouble passing through
side by side.
Some are thin enough that only a razor
could have cut its opening.
The doorframes are pink in color.
The dark crimson doors have frames with mottled,
irritated looking pink paint.
The lighter red door’s frames show barely a flush against the
pale flesh colored outer walls.
The doors do not disturb the look of the house.
The western walls are rarely seen anyway.

Upon contact with a door such as one that could be found
on this house,
it could be noted that on occasion, the doors seem newly painted.
The thickness of the paint itself varies.
In the season I’m Fine, of saltwater rain, one could fill a cup with the paint
and very nearly see through the translucent clouded red.
Those are the days when the paint mixes with the rain and
drips down,
down,
down the walls of the house,
over bumps and hollows,
over smooth and rough,
down and
down,
until it slides over the feet and onto the bathroom floor.

The other seasons are quite a blur, and are not marked by the
freshness nor deepness of the doors.
During the season of Getting Better, the paint flakes off in rusty black bits.
The shedding of the paint is a lovely revelation,
mostly because of the shiny pink beneath it.
It’s like spring.

The Occupants of the house are shaky during this time.
Recovery is exhausting. They smile and look out the windows sometimes.
You might smile and wave back. They do worry when people don’t.
“Was it me?” They ask. “Did I do something? Did they see the doors?”
The Occupants go through great trouble to hide the doors.
We think They know we peek.

If you’re lucky, after Getting Better comes Okay.
Okay is lovely. The red doors fade away.
The Occupants come outside sometimes to paint the doors.
They’re pale and blink in the sun, but They quietly work,
brushing on Soft Ivory 001, their favorite color.
It’s a bit translucent, like a mesh curtain.
The Occupants have to layer it on because of this.
It’s slow progress, but They come out day by day to paint,
a lively flush blooming in their cheeks.
In the end, the doors look rather purple, and you can only see the outlines,
faintly showing through a fresh layer of
skin.