Reticence

For a long time the green door
remained shut. In the dirty city
this was not noteworthy. Rain,
ashy and grotesque-scented, 
streaked down it and fine lines
creased the old paint in age.
The brass handle always appeared
about to slough onto the concrete.
In the dirty city this was all common.
No passersby paused in wonder
at this mystery, no one tried to open
the door, and not even a single
curious observer, flush and eager
and full of unearned confidence,
asked what it might mean
to stay shut forever — if what was inside,
an answer to a mystery or only
another dusty room, even existed
with no one there to see it.