The chime too loud too long

The chime, too loud, too long,

stuck in the air, a tinny,

insistent thing.

My finger hovered

over the intercom,

then dropped.

It was the same tone, almost,

as the one that lived

on Elm Street, years back.

A single button, brass,

worn smooth at the edges.

I’d press it,

hear the distant,

hollow bell,

then wait.

The sun would move

across the porch planks.

Dust motes in the shaft of light

would rise and fall.

And the door,

it always held its breath,

kept its secrets close.

Never a click,

never a face

behind the glass.

Just the sound,

dying out,

and the quiet

that followed.