Hollow Clang

The walk itself

is ritual. The worn path

to the street, the slight

resistance of the metal flap.

A tiny hope, a flicker,

for something to arrive.

A bill, a flyer,

even junk mail. Just

the weight of paper.

But the inside

is just shadow.

Cool air. A faint

spider web, stretched thin

in the corner, holding

nothing but dust.

The clang when I let it drop,

sharp and empty.

A little final,

like a door closing

on something

that never opened.

Just a quiet echo

in the afternoon heat.