the door is growing old
creaks loudly and
hinges for support
polished sheesham wood
now salty and ripe
like an orange peel
squeezing it’s nectar
into my eyes
it’s not a sight worth seeing
but it’s the fashion
of old grizzlies
to fold themselves back
into their mothers’ womb
and refuse to lie still
waiting for a 7x2x3
six feet underground.
