The Doorstop

The room had to breathe.

Open door.

Enter the wind,

And the sun, and

the sweet scent of flowers in bloom

and alluring sounds of melancholy.

The bedspreads are awry,

Crumbled ,

Slept on

and forgotten.

Ashtray on the corner-table.

Cigarettes

burnt to the butt,

Matter, fire, smoke, ash, strewn

peppering the table.

Careless taps of the finger.

Whispering wind

Says secrets

Seduces the ash,

Makes it dance around in whirls.

Ballroom of fraility.

The wind stops.

Ash collapses.

End of life.

The curtains flutter

in the wind now.

Billowing,

as the wind belches.

And the door trembles.

The room breathes.

The ash floats,

Stay suspended,

Double somersault,

And paraglides down

onto the unkempt linen.

The doorstop keeps the door open.

Limiting friction.

Full-stop.