The appointment ran late I stood outside

The appointment ran late. I stood outside

and held the handle — brass, old, the center

worn almost gold. The finish rubbed and dried

away at the grip. A soft erasure. Enter

any door enough times and it shows.

The oval where the palms had always been —

smooth, pale, the record of how this goes —

surrounded by the darker, the unseen

edges where fewer hands had reached.

Original brass. Still there at the rim.

I kept my palm on it. The leached

center warm against my skin. The dim

hallway visible through the glass.

I held it longer than I needed to —

my hand in all those other hands,

the door not knowing who was who.