The Door of My Face

is elaborately bolted,
ornate and brass
its closed-mouth smile.
I am a Victorian house,
inviting no one in.
You are charmed by my facade.

All the while, well hidden
in a curtained edge of window,
I watch you waiting,
shifting foot-to-foot.

Just as I vow that
if you knock once more
I'll tumble down the stairs,
opening myself to you
like a hallway,
turning on the lights,
you turn instead
and walk away from me,
disappearing by degrees.

I sink inside myself
upon a polished floor,
write secret words,
pull all the blinds
and double-lock the door.

-- Deb Cooper

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
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