Conversation with a door (or, What one writes after reading too much Emily Dickinson)

I've opened you and closed you - 
felt the wind move as you passed.
I've left you ajar plenty of times
but shut you when there's a draft.

I've waved at people seen outside
and welcomed a few elect.
I've shoved a few intruders out
and slammed you for effect.

I've pressed my ear against you -
listened at great length.
I've rested my head upon you
and trusted in your strength.

What more then can you ask of me?
There's nothing more to do.
Well, save that little, tiny thing,
but I don't see the need, do you?