DOOR POEM

OPEN, he said,
THE GODDAM
DOOR

He said it as if
he meant it.

He said it
as if he existed.

He didn’t.

I made him up,
for the sake of
this poem.

That’s right.
I’m a poet.


Just today I wrote
“Poet” under
“Occupation”
in my passport.

But don’t poets
make things up?

Yes they do.

So perhaps I
am not a poet,
even though
I said so, in
my passport.

Pretty soon
I will get to
renew my
driver’s license.

I can’t wait
to do that.

Poets enjoy
waiting.

So I must not
be a poet.

Poets,
you can always
recognize them,

because they like
many things. And
they write of many
things, or not many
things, if they choose
to write of less,
depending on
the poet.

I, for instance, once
wrote of many things,
but no more.

Now I write
about people–men
mostly, and doors,
and passionate feelings,
and occasionally,
headaches.

Here, for example,
is another poem
I wrote, yesterday,
after writing DOOR
POEM I:

DOOR POEM II

THIS DOOR
he remarked,
OPEN IT

I HAVE
he also remarked,
A HEADACHE

GODDAM IT

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007