using hands to open a door

in the morning sponge put on his arms. he put on his legs then. last, the head. done. ready to go. i wonder what happens next, he said. usually something happens.something, such as a knock on the door. a knock. coming, said sponge. i’m coming. he looked around. the room looked as always. another knock. impatient. sponge when to open the door with his elbow. are these your hands, the man said. he was the janitor’s helper, surely he was, the janitor had mentioned something about taking somebody on and collected money as well. are the yours, the helper said, and presented a pair of hands. i could do with some, said sponge, they are always useful. the hands were passed on, they fitted. thanks you, said sponge and closed the door. he would be late now, he thought, had he had an appointment of sorts. he left. there is a door after all, he thought.
evening time he returned, took everything off and fell asleep.

a house has a door

now look: brown, wooden, rectangular. a picture of it here.
red, wooden, rectangular. that’ll do. block of wood has finish his pathetic search for a door.
why he did that nobody knew and less cared. new attractions waited to be seen such as the outlook to new corners, pieces of gum on the tarmac, bits of skin on the tarmac. uneventful family outings. taxmen and train people holding rallies, funnies faces on the ground, the occasional fall of a lady from the 3rd floor of a building. ladies fell out of windows a lot in st.peterburg during the twenties but things seemed to have changed there since.

© the Book of Sponge and Others.