Turning

Turning

I don’t understand

the revolving door.

Moving, always moving

in one place.

There is comfort

in an open door,

a closed door--

knowing just where I stand,

one side or the other

of somewhere.

But here I turn

forgetting where I got in,

unsure when to exit.

Okay, I’m an idiot.

I find I’m transfixed

by the man two slots

ahead of me.

He is both fat and flimsy,

held together

by a bow tie, a ghost

between sheets of glass.

I can’t decide if I follow him

or if he is following me.