Wrong Compartment

I pushed the door and the door pushed back.

Four seconds in the glass compartment,

lobby visible through one pane,

street through the other,

the brass handle warm from everyone

who'd gotten through without thinking about it.

I reversed. Came out on the street side.

Walked around to the other set of doors

like nothing happened.

The meeting was fine.

My former colleague looked the same.

We talked about the project, the handoff,

the thing that fell apart after I left.

I kept coming back to those four seconds though—

the way the lobby just sat there, clear as anything,

while I was pressing into it

from the wrong direction,

not yet understanding

that was the problem.