You could smell the
Horseradish
Halfway down the block
Mixed mustard trim
Filled in
With deep deli-brown
Grey Poupon
It was the kind of door
We didn’t need
Plastered
With the kind of color
My mother loved
The kind of color
That stuck out
Like the half-hammered nails
Semi-securing
The dijon door
To its backdrop
Of splintered pine
The summer my mother
Painted it
Has long passed
And the dijon doors’
Joyful yellow shade
Has dated into gray matter
The spring that made sure
It shut
Was wound much too tight
So when I left
It expressed its grief
In a single
Ringing
Echo