The cassiterite sleeved door, with oxidized sides
and arthritic growth under a brass skinned hinge,
basks in the sea of giant clams—
the senior citizen grind of acquiescence manifests.
On fob the tumblers resist a tin man fist
and chalkboard scrape and squeal of long,
dry nails. Sharp aluminum threshold dares
entry, still every day the gauntlet is run.
Metal stares from black air with hoped for treasure
in its mouth. Is there a way one might escape
unscathed? Long, slow march
of alizarin hands bitten, pass by and head home
with weakened demeanors, crooked fins and ads.
—This time, there had better be mail.
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