The Door D.L. Roelen

For countless thoughts the door was closed, I had forgotten it, now it is open and I am a child. Only a little light wants to fall into this workshop, it creeps through the windows behind wooden shelves, the dust and the remains of the smoke of a dead tobacco pipe turn in it. Backlit is the face of an old man, bent over a bucket of glue, gluing heels onto old leather boots, still oozing from the shelves at first, like glue on new rubber soles and Tierowa shoe grease in a vice.
His cup bears traces of black tea, the English kind, here still with notes of hay and the glow of smoky vetiver, on the rims, the handle, the hands. People he doesn't like at all, usually try to talk to him, sometimes leave tiny clouds of musk among the leather, maybe pheromones even, probably wouldn't stand out here.
Never does he look me in the face, not even a word do I remember, just the smell of his workshop. Sometimes I have to think of him when I stick my head in a shoe closet. Behind that door, after six hours, it's over, the memory smudging a cloth of musk.

(With thanks to Gschpusi)