Bang Bang

I sat outside

while the neighbor's kids

ran in and out,

in and out,

the screen door

opening and closing.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

The metal frame bent,

the mesh held,

but those small holes

let the world through—

light, air, insects,

every sound from the street.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The hinges groaned.

The frame shook.

It pretended to separate

inside from out,

but the line was thin,

almost nothing.

The mesh lets in more

than it keeps out.

It's the thinnest barrier—

honest about how little

actually divides us

from the rest of the noise.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I watched the door

do its futile job,

separating what pretends

to be separate,

holding back

nothing at all.