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.