I hear a knock at the door,
but I am busy, I have a lot to do,
a lot to think about.

The world outside will have to wait.
What does it matter to me
if a couple sit on a blanket

in the park across the street,
if yellow leaves are falling?
Again, someone knocking,

louder this time. This is not new,
I have heard the knocking
many times

for what might be months, years,
sometimes soft, almost a touch,
a caress, sometimes a peremptory tap,

sometimes frantic banging and shouting.
It’s all the same, I am working,
I will not be disturbed.

Peaches moulder in the blue china bowl.
The house is silent now.
How long have I been sitting here

as the shadows lengthen?
When did I last hear anything,
anything at all?

This quiet that is also a disquiet
presses upon me,
and I do an unusual thing,

I get up from my chair, I go to the door.
I turn the handle,
and the door swings inward.

In the doorway, fitted to the frame,
is another closed door.
One with no handle.

Who would build such a thing,
without my knowledge?
Who would do this to me?

I have harmed no one.
I give the door a push,
but it doesn’t move.

I knock, and wait,
but nobody answers.
I knock harder.