At the Door
Your footsteps blur into the sound of the elevator doors closing, then come clear around the turn of the stairs. I wasn't waiting for that sound, I was just sitting by the door while it came. The smell of the shoes you left in is still in the gap under the door. Today, before you opened the door, I wagged my tail once first. I don't know if you saw. Now it's your hand's turn to reach my head.
Wind came in through the corridor window and the curtain swelled, then sank. I walked to where its shadow had passed and sat down.
Where the wind had passed through the curtain, I saw you sitting. I followed that shadow one step and stood beside you, at your feet.
I was sitting on the bus stop bench when the old man beside me took gimbap from a bag and asked, "Have you had dinner?" To no one in particular. I only nodded and looked at the streetlamps outside.
That streetlamp's light must have settled on the gimbap bag. I too looked toward where the old man's voice was coming from.
On a day someone has come by, looking at the slipper marks left in the entryway until evening, I feel I can tell where every footstep is headed.
Even while the smell of your shoes lingers in the gap of the front door, the slipper marks are keeping their place until evening.