Strange at the Door


Knocking came from the door.

The knocking came from yesterday.

If I dare answer it?

There would have been absolutely no corner, in which to place the baggage.

Damaged goods lay in a pile by a three legged four post bed.

The bed, in turn, covered fictional monsters who insisted on always being fed.

Rapping upon the driftwood door remained persistent.

What if the scrapping of buckled knuckles had been… disappointment?

They were forever…lacking an appointment.

I glanced at the bedside table for possible space.

That had already been stacked full with books of accusations.

And, set atop those stolen words…

a vase filled with finger pointing.

Disquieted, I took a sip off water from a cloudy glass.

The chalice had been a gift from those ‘holier than thou.’

Used to be I slurped the water as though, wine.

As if it were my supper…my last.

Were I to allow a stranger into this safe place?

In my heart of hearts, it would have been only I… becoming two faced.

Having had my entourage of trunks amassed with unease…years before.

I sat down, lit a cigarette, resolving to not answer the door.


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