Wasn’t a door so much as a peephole 

on the bottom of a banana I got

from a witch holding a tabby cat 

at the Thursday Farmers Market. 

How else to explain a teensy-weensy

door? Served no purpose other 

than bait, hinging dreams of safety

from balloons doing handsprings 

or when peanut butter sticks to the roof

of my mouth. My nephew went with me, 

shouted, Not so tight, Aunt Suzy! 

My knuckles turned white—I had gripped 

his fat little hand, creamy fingertips gone

purple. In the Ruby’s Diner parking lot, 

he wrestled away, tumbled

through a sliding gate at the top 

of a cherry milkshake.