A Photograph

My suited and booted grandpa

reminds me of a weighty door

hewed from fired vesi or oak.

If, upon turning the brass knob

in his breast, you push against him,

he’s swift to push against you,

and for an instant you’re a doorman

and he the mule of a man-door

until the moment of letting go

when he pulls you along after him

into an open room where history

reclines vacantly on an armchair.