Polished Cold

The doorknob on the front door,

heavy and round.

I took a rag to it today,

worked the dullness off.

It gleamed for a second,

that deep, old gold.

But the shine doesn't warm it.

It’s still cold to the touch.

Constant, that chill.

Like it remembers winter,

like it’s holding onto something

long past its season.

It turns, it lets you in,

but that brass heart beats slow,

a metal pulse under your palm.