Door Prose Poem

       I stand by the whistling door and smell the wire of the screen. I open the door to the refrigerator and enjoy the predictable tendrils of cold that lurk out.    I am a door on hinges.  I swing open and shut. I am a door between a restaurant and a kitchen.  I swing open widely, someone comes out with a cake on a tray.  Then I lick the doorframe back and forth, back and forth, back and forth more quietly now.