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  should follow him

or if he is following me.