Face

The Door On The Left

The door on the left is
always closed, shut to the light
coming from the hall,
the sounds behind it are muffled,
an occasional moan,
a nervous laugh,
a pleading apology,
a promise to try harder next time,
a pledge that this was,
really,
the last time.
The door on the left,
is painted white.
Every scuff mark shows,
every fist beat resonates within
the wood, till another takes its place.
There is no welcome mat,
just a salt stained spot in the beige carpet.
The door on the left is
always locked, the hallway light above
burned out, dust covered,
it's glass globe filled
with moths, and flies.
The door on the left is
always locked,
the door on the right
tries to not notice.