Day 10: Suffering poem (Doormat, an Autobiography)

Lord, send the visitors away.
It happens every time.
As they scrape their shoes across my face,
I become far dirtier than the bottom of their shoes will ever be clean.
Lord, why'd you make me flat?
That I may lay, hapless, on this doorstep?
They get me coming; they get me going.
But even after I'm all dirty from being walked on,
The fact remains that I will always say
"Welcome."