A painted, scratched, wall of wood sits patiently at the enterance of the house,
It waits patiently for visitors to arrive, and beat on it's chipped surface,
It is a welcome sign, inviting it's visitors to approach,
Ready to open, to anyone who asks.
The handle is like a key,
turning and twisting,
The light reflects on its silver metal skin.
The door swings open, shut, open, shut.
It sways with a creak, in and out.
Pushed to the side, shoved against the wall.
Countless hands, leaving their prints on the front of the door.
Sheding paint in the painful sun,
Resting, in the cold night,
Waitng patiently for visitors to arrive,
and beat on it's chipped surface.