I imagine there is a door facing you,

half open, half closed,

maybe some stranger’s fingerprints around the handle,

those dead leaves heaped by time.

you may have coughed once or twice;

I remember some vague pledge to quit the smokes,

a wry smile and the hours fanning out in languid ripples.

passing laughter in the hall, perhaps,

the ticking clock of it shiny as a needle

falling to the floor in front of you,

the last place the ones who really mean it look.