The Doorknob

The Doorknob Is your doorknob brass, white porcelain, glass or wood? Perhaps it's Victorian bronze? Does it keep infection at bay? Do you squeeze it tight as a calf on its mother's teat? It's there for the long haul, handshake marathons Brass, copper and silver slowly poison germs When they make their way to your door How many hands rotate it in one week? Are they welcome or not? The Coronavirus pandemic has given us pause for thought Door knobs are hard for the old and young to use Especially when hands are slippery with sweat In a sweltering summer, or Gothic horror story And oh so sharp to the touch when the days are cruel and frosty Door knobs put up with much in the ways of flesh Bone crusher grips, grasps that are limp as lettuce A clench as tight as a vice or a lobster claw A dignified palm, as proud as the Doge of Venice Knobs and knockers by definition are passive Though some develop their own particular foibles They creak or click while others are most reliable Dependable as the weight of a stack of bibles And what of the visitors in the distant past? The ghostly fingers that once pulsed warm with life? And what of the visitors who never came at all Those alienated through argument or strife? I stood in a night of snow across the street Staring long and hard at the doorway there Strangers now inhabit the family home I am the last one standing, the solitary heir