Doorway
This
public passage from street to inside,
Portal
into commerce for the great unwashed,
Shining
steps, marble facings,
Heavy
glass doors, lobby and atrium.
In
and out, coming and going.
Busy
thoroughfare for those who have business,
And
those there by appointment.
Open
by day, inviting, welcoming,
Drawing
in customers, callers and couriers,
Doorway
encouraging entry,
Corporate
face smiling outwards in sunlight,
Past
a security guard standing there, sentry.
Later
closing, and locked for the night.
Soon
quiet, deserted, no longer in use,
Unlit,
unfrequented, darkened, but dry.
Entryway
blocked off in empty hours,
Tall-ceilinged,
a space in the gloom,
Now
forming a cul-de-sac,
Three
sides of a room,
Sheltered
from the wind, and the worst of the cold,
A
personal, private dead-end.
Unfashionable
accommodation,
At
the heart of the West End,
But
welcome nevertheless:
Singles
only, I’m afraid -
No
mattress, no breakfast,
Bring
your own bedding and towels,
Lacks
an en-suite,
Early
check-out on week-days,
If
not woken by passing feet,
Or
a copper on the beat, moving you on.
Regular
haunt for those on the street,
A
good spot if you’re in the know,
Safer
than shelters and hostels,
If
there’s nowhere else you can go.
By
morning, it’s change-over time,
Becoming
the same old place.
A
care-taker sweeping away rubbish,
And
a building resuming its usual face.
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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