Reworking of an old Door Poem

The Last Door

This is the last door, so they say. There’s no keyhole
to peek through, no slice of sunlight waxing
from a crack. Perhaps the door is locked, a cosmic

joke, and in this door, every door you’ve opened
slams shut. No pressure, you can stand and knock
for eternity, the vacant paradise or inferno fit only

for those who walk. Or maybe they lied and billions
of doors beyond wait for this one and all others
to open and close, open and close, with linear

precision. How far along the chain is the cupboard
you locked your son in, ten minutes of dark
for every tantrum, until he learned to stay quiet

and wait? How far the taxi door that hammered on
your fingers as you reached to stop your wife
from tearing him away? One thing for sure –

every blind alley swivels towards this point, every
lesson you didn’t learn. The door creaks; it needs
oiled with thoughts you don’t know you’ve had yet.