Refugee

A man carries his door,
the door of his house,
because when the war is over
he is going home

where he will hang it
on its hinges
and lock it, tight,
while he tries to remember
the word for welcome.

If his house is gone
when he returns,
he will raise it from rubble
around this door.

If he cannot return,
the door will remember
the rest of the house
so he can build it
again, elsewhere.

And if he cannot go on,
his door can be a palette
for his rest, a stretcher
to carry him, his shade
from sun, his shield.

Copyright © 2005 Richard Hoffman All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission