I don’t remember what the man looked like
yesterday who held the door open for me
in the post office—maybe he had a beard,
maybe a hat—but I recall the slight tension
in his extended arm that stretched out
a few seconds more than was comfortable
as he was leaving just so I could walk in
with my hands at my sides. And I barely see
the girl at the bakery who did the same—
round face, beaming smile as if being kind
when she didn’t have to activated every last
endorphin in her brain. It would be nice
to think we’re made that way—helpful
for no other reason than the pleasure
it brings. Just think of how many doors
we have to walk through in a lifetime
and all the little increments of joy
we get helping young mothers with arms
full of kids and old men with canes
make their way through the portals
of time that are no less monumental
to them in any given moment than
a drawbridge defending a castle. And so
when I left the bakery yesterday with
one hand holding a hot cup of coffee
and a bag of rolls in the other I gave
a little push with my rump so the door
would swing open for the man coming in
or maybe I was just wagging the tail I do
not have with undisguised contentment.