Threshold

The bulb overhead is a dying fly

buzzing in the same key as the ringing in my ears.

I’m staring at the black scuffs

where someone dragged a heavy trunk

and left the rubber of their departure behind.

Behind the door of 4C, a vacuum is screaming,

eating the dust of a life I’m not ready to join.

I stand here with my keys biting my palm,

waiting for the noise to stop

so I can walk in without being seen.