Knock, and the door will be opened,
But knocking can be dreadfully rude.
One, two, three—one, two, three,
I’m standing under the 7:30
While she pushes her hands through the sky
And the moon pours through her steel-toed eyes.
The door cracks, a shepherd pup
Slips into the night, looks me up—
A stiletto—screwdriver-orange—crashes down,
Spooks the dog clear out of town.
I peel through the waving door,
Find myself on the upper floor.
A murder of crows in her viscous wig
Pecks at the window with olive twigs.
In the basement a paper desk resides.
Her thunderous coughs stir the tides
In a whiskey barrel loaded with ink
As each word written turns sunflower pink.
The desk crumbles under my stare,
Lays the poem’s scaffolding bare.
A dust bunny raids the gore,
Walks away with the metaphor.
The 7:30 vanishes like a lady,
But the crows stand sure and stately—
Knocking, like I had before,
Knocking at my open door.
I round the corner, breathe in the lane.
Forget the growing, bloody stain
Across my snowy shirt of lamb
And drink my way to Amsterdam.
As starlight swirls above the bay,
A tramp with gloves stoops toward the fray.
“Chocolate?” he offers, but drops it.
A familiar crow arrives to profit.
“Something wrong?” the tramp’s brow cocks.
My shoulders tremble and knees knock.
I confess as I faint on a two-story shoe.