apocryphally, they say
you paint your home’s door red
when your debt’s been paid

it’s unclear if, or when, 
their aquamarine portal 
will turn oxblood–
it opens and closes and opens
again, so often
surely that creaky ingress
would scream crimson by now–
and so the teal must speak deeper
to their soul: embrace, serve, create
an authenticity of welcome
a seafoam wave of home
that washes inward over all who enter
past well-worn jambs, splintered wood
and locks that are a little too loose,
and outward with the departure of
every customer,
nay,
friend