What Comes Next

The flag still down.

A rectangle bleached by years of sun,

hinges groaning a little

when I push the door.

Just the hollow metal

staring back.

No bills, no letters, no flyers

promising a better life

or just a discount on detergent.

Nothing to sort,

nothing to discard,

nothing to hold onto.

The world keeps its secrets,

I guess.

And me? I just stand here,

hands empty,

waiting for something

that doesn't seem to arrive.