Praise In Peephole

hearing them stamp the snow off their feet I look through the peephole even before the bells rings I did not invite them, know if I let them in they'll say they can't stay but will Inside, they's discover: me at age seventy my teeth out of place in a glass on the table, the boxes full of poems, my collection of magazines and other litter If I let them into my swelling house, my dwildling life, they will only add to the mess with their soiled wet shoes, make a scene at my not having told them it's my birthday Praise be the peephole I don't have to let them in