When I leave,
I don’t walk through that door.
That door opens slow.

Dull carpet and lackluster wallpaper.
Rooms that look like all the others.

People moving in herds,
yet still that one trying to push past,
to arrive at the same place
only a few seconds fast.

So many coming and going.
I can’t wait until I’m out.
Through doors, elevators, trams, and stairs,
moving and waiting, too much time to count.

The pallor of a concrete parking garage
never looked so good.

When I leave,
I don’t walk through that door.
That door opens slow.

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