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The Cold Doorknobs 

I.
I am sure there will be that profound moment in time
when the dog out back will stop its incessant yapping,
Its unrelenting impulse to belch out its interminable wails, 
alas, to inform its annoyed master and owner, 
of the lurking prowlers, and the street whores, 
who are always seeking cold doorknobs, 
as they sniff around the premises like aging detectives, 
while trying the handles with ball-like knuckles; 
but even the dogs inside the dark and dingy interiors 
know when not to yap, unlike the one presently finding 
repetitious solace with its swishing tail upon the sun-burnt bricks 
out back there, where an unnamed river flows unobtrusively by, 
headfirst diligently into the accessible countryside, 
where lonely people sit in the sad shade at noontime 
with half-eaten somethings, wrapped in foil 
with quivering garnishments and curious sidebars, 
but the dogs do not care one iota for such culinary escapes, 
as one might expect, 
for they know that the tastiest feast is the one
that has already been eaten, 
and now has returned from its stomach, 
undigested, and immaculate.

II.
“But, shh, I have a secret to tell you; 
it is hidden discreetly amongst the old urns; 
Look, over there. Do you see it? 
Take a few steps closer, don’t be afraid. 
It appears to be dangerous, but it isn’t at all. 
My mother used to warn me of its capacity to kill or maim, 
but denial visited my mind, and rightly so. 
Don’t be scared into thinking its three eyes and three legs 
are anything aberrational or contrary 
to what we have grown accustomed to
in our short time here on this curious planet;
Yes, it is real, but it does not bite. 
I don’t think you should feed it though. 
It only eats cold doorknobs.”

III.
Shall we continue this obscure jaunt down my garden path? 
Shall we not stop a few times to breathe,
and take in the extensive views here? 
Shall we then gather a myriad of lupine blooms to decorate our fountain, 
our oasis by the brittled birch tree? 
First time I saw you was in a memory of déjà vu; 
We were moving through a long elbow of carpet, 
with paintings of idyll street scenes on the white walls, 
and I remember your footsteps were creaking the floorboards, 
making little mousey squeaks as you tiptoed past the shower room, 
the one with the deathly black tiles stretching across its length, 
like dead snakes drying on a rack, and you were sitting on the floor there.
“Tell me your name. Who are you? 
You must be new because, well, you have materialized yourself;
Most of my ghostly girlfriends walk the hall in spirit,
and frankly, those silver eyes of yours, 
well, they remind me of cold doorknobs.” 
You sat there alone in the darkness of a July twilight; 
the orange sunset to the west reminding me of 
huge fiery explosions going off continuously;
I sat down next to you on the carpet there, and 
I knew then you were not human.

IV.
“Tell me your name. Who are you?”
So I presume you came from inside the walls of the death room, 
the last one on the right after the turning elbow; 
“Hey girl, look over there, look. That’s the death room. 
Go there and turn the stinging cold doorknob; 
Go in there and see the dead man on the bed,”
he’s under the wool blanket, 
placed there by the man’s wife and brother;  
but now it is time to load him up 
for the dusty ride, the bumpy dusty ride to the far lake, 
with no map or plan or eyes in which to see clearly,
“Yes miss, we can sit here and huddle ourselves with these undead people, 
they are as desperate as lizards escaping the vipers; 
they never look at you, 
they choose to ignore any glance from our eyes;” 

V.
Attired immodestly in a short sundress, 
my ghost girl sits now in a strange chair, 
with bare concise legs crossed like bronze swords in the sun, 
revealing dangling toes made of cherry and white frosting.
“Who are you? Tell me your name.” 
And she takes another drink, and smiles, 
throwing her hair back,
“Then clearly it is something I am not permitted to know, 
this secret no one knows about you, 
Look here, miss, into this old mirror,
hanging a century here, recalling the stubble lost, 
and the pallor of the long dead, 
Show us the book you want everyone to read, 
but secretly have not read yourself;
go in there, ghost girl, just turn the cold doorknob there, 
and… shhh…  tiptoe into the shadowy death room, 
the last one on the right, at the end of the elbow.
Close the door behind you.
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