I pound & pound on your door;
but you won’t let me in.
No, not you.
Too clever for this cat.
Actually, I haven’t been pounding @ all.
That’s all the fevers in my imagination.
I’ve only been glancing sideways @ it--
So stealthily, you’ll never find out.
Now, you’re probably wondering
why I don’t just open the door.
But there are far too many doors from which to choose.
I still haven’t made my choice.
Why are you so impatient?
But there is no “you,” is there?
There never was.
I tried to find a “you” somewhere in there--
a hat, a color, an icon--
all just straw.
So many hands offering so many drinks;
why, I’ll never find in which you’ve hid the poison, you finks.
I think, “Would this be easier if I thought less or mo’?”
But I don’t have much mo’ time to think
‘Fore the close o’ every door.