Stigma

Stigma


Doors


entry

The door opens softly;

a palm with a key leaves its mark.

The metal remembers the steps;

And I count the times I entered.


The light on the door becomes a number.

A ticket fades in the pocket.

The guard looks at the time;

The door holds the secret of routine.


The noise of a key is a small prayer.

Each opening an account;

every closure an unspoken promise.

I keep the key like a contract.


In this context, the body enters;

the place remains neutral.

And I note: key, entrance, time.

The clippings become evidence.


card

A card on the wall;

the letters are small, strict.

The series of lines counts my day;

I read without hope.


The guard passes by in a hurry;

The machine is creaking.

I count my steps like numbers;

and a key slips into my palm.


One door closes; another opens.

The click of the machine counts those present.

I look at the card;

and I write in the margin: he returned.


The paper holds my name.

And when I take it off, the day seems lighter.

Small entrance ceremonies; small exit ceremonies.

The key remains, without a door.


morning pass

Reading the door before work.

My breath becomes a list.

Passersby hurry; the guard salutes.

A key hits the disk.


In my pockets, tickets and receipts.

A small problem with the machine;

A woman is waiting for the door to open for her day.

I count the steps; and I remain silent.


A machine remembers our serial number.

The key becomes a symbol; not a solution.

And yet I keep it;

like I'm keeping an old name.


I note: 07:18.

The city begins to move.

Doors open; doors close.

A little story among metals.