For every action
there is an equal
and opposite
reaction.  

The time spent with  a lock pick at a keyhole,
eye glued to the dark other side of the door
like your parents’ room when you were small,
half=remembered quilt covered bed
and an dusty valet stand in the corner
and a lace doily on the dresser with perfume bottles.  

You feel the click
more than hear it
as you turn the pick,
turn the knob,
feel the vibration
of unoiled hinges.  

Half-forgotten blank spaces obscure the scene
of a man, of a woman, of a husband, of a wife,
of a little boy standing in the doorway
unnoticed in the dark.