Threshold Lockdown

Night fell over the street. Time to pull back from the public pavement. I marched back along the path, crossed the porch, and stepped inside over the door sill. In the entryway corner sat a discarded brass coat hook, heavy and cold. It lay angled loose near the baseboard runner. Clutter has no place in the perimeter. I dropped into a wide, immovable squat. Sank my center. Gripped the arched metal curve with both fists and shoved it flush into the trim corner. Anchored. Guard mounted.