The Mat Stays Wet

I stood on the wet mat

for five minutes,

then rang the bell again.

I could hear the television,

the low murmur of something

no one was watching,

just background noise

for being alone.

The recycling bins

hadn't been brought in.

They were still at the curb,

empty and patient.

There was a dent

in the door frame,

something that happened

and never got fixed,

a small violence

the door absorbed.

I rang again.

She was in there.

I knew it.

But the door

had become a wall,

and the bell

had become

the sound of someone

outside

asking to come in

to someone

who had already

decided

the answer was no.

I left.

The mat stayed wet.

The TV stayed on.

The door stayed closed.