Angry,
angry,
angry door
FURIOUS with RAGE!

I want to slam in their faces
and blame it on the wind
But I’ll probably start to split
the cracks that I’ve acquired
over so many years
While they forgot to heal me
Remove the flaking paint from my aging surfaces
and apply
an outer epidermis
a protective varnish
to stop the ants and woodlice
from crawling into my body
and suck it dry
and eventually helpless.

Even now,
at this angry
angry old age
I stop the wind
and the autumn leaves
from consuming the house
The final barrier
between warmth
and uncertainty.

I endure the cat
scratching through my flesh
And the rain
penetrating
deep into my psyche
So that I can only see dampness
in all my dreams
Until the scorching sun
from an exceptional day
desiccates me completely
so that I’m left
rendered helpless
aching
and just wanting to beat
back and forth
along my rusty, semi-corroded hinges
like a child
swinging nonchalantly.

But, I can’t
I’m tethered
bolted to the house
with only the nightmares I get
of being torn down,
snapped to pieces
and burnt
on a funeral pyre
like all the other
angry
old things.


---Jib, 12.34pm, 04 Sept 02