He stared at the door
The old, dusty, oaken door
With drawings of the five year old
Of stick figures and bent houses
Strewn along the wooden surface
And memories of the ten year old
Of his first loss at the baseball game
As the crestfallen child came home
And punched the door
Leaving a red mark on the grain
From the wound he made
As a reward for his ignorance
And fondness from the man
The man he is today
As he recollects the fancy drawings
And marks and memories
Of this immortal record of his life
As he opens the door
He enters his house to greet his family
After a memorable hard day's work
One more mark on the door