Doorway

Doorway

This public passage from street to inside,

A portal into commerce,

Its shining steps, and marble facings,

Its heavy glass doors, its lobby and gaping atrium,

People in and out, coming and going,

Busy thoroughfare for business,

And those there by appointment.

Open by day, inviting, warm and welcoming,

Drawing in customers, callers and couriers,

A doorway beckoning easy entry,

Its corporate face smiling outwards into sunlight,

Beyond solid security guards standing sentry,

Later closing, and locked up for the night.

After hours it’s quiet, deserted, no longer used,

Unlit, unfrequented, darkened, but mostly dry,

The entryway blocked off at night-times,

Tall-ceilinged, an ingle in the gloom,

Reduced to a cul-de-sac,

Three sides of a room,

Sheltered from the wind, and the worst of the cold,

A personal, private dead-ended space.

Such 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,

Lacking any en-suite,

Early check-out on week-day mornings,

If not woken by passing feet,

Or a copper to move you along.

Regular haunt for those on the street,

A good spot if you’re in the know,

Safer than shelters or hostels,

When there’s nowhere else to go.

By first light, it’s change-over time again,

Turning back into the same old place,

Where a care-taker sweeps away the night’s rubbish,

And the building resumes its implacable face.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2016