The door will close on the world,

the only vision

of what lays beyond the great beyond

will come through television’s

voyeuristic intent

and from the voices I hear

as they pass the gate,

unhindered and alone;

almost spectral, apparitions

in the dust of hopeful white

that will add fuel to the point

of staying put

safe in my own mind and memory.

 

I will hear no knocks,

no rapping with great urgency

upon the wooden door

but I will be startled from slumber,

the fleeting respite for the tired and heartless,

if the letterbox should vent its fury

against the waning of the unnatural year,

if the postman rang twice,

and the delivery woman

offered a shoulder to cry upon…

 

I will burn away inside my head

for a while and find solace

in thinking, of changing my mind

of a characters passing and a hopeful end

in which to bathe a word, a hundred thousand sentences

scattered to the four corners of the room,

all is gone,

all is tired behind

the soon to be shut door,

not to be opened till just before

twelve on New Year’s Eve

when the first taste of Cuban

passes my insatiable lips.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015