The Doorknob Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Doorknob
Is your doorknob brass, white porcelain, glass or wood?
Perhaps it's Victorian bronze?
Does it keep infection at bay?
Do you squeeze it tight as a calf on its mother's teat?
It's there for the long haul, handshake marathons

Brass, copper and silver slowly poison germs
When they make their way to your door
How many hands rotate it in one week?
Are they welcome or not?
The Coronavirus pandemic has given us pause for thought

Door knobs are hard for the old and young to use
Especially when hands are slippery with sweat
In a sweltering summer, or Gothic horror story
And oh so sharp to the touch when the days are cruel and frosty

Door knobs put up with much in the ways of flesh
Bone crusher grips, grasps that are limp as lettuce
A clench as tight as a vice or a lobster claw
A dignified palm, as proud as the Doge of Venice

Knobs and knockers by definition are passive
Though some develop their own particular foibles
They creak or click while others are most reliable
Dependable as the weight of a stack of bibles

And what of the visitors in the distant past?
The ghostly fingers that once pulsed warm with life?
And what of the visitors who never came at all
Those alienated through argument or strife?

I stood in a night of snow across the street
Staring long and hard at the doorway there
Strangers now inhabit the family home
I am the last one standing, the solitary heir