Who Is Knocking At My Door
’Twas about eight o’clock,
And I dreaded the knock,
The Carollers of pure light,
With such Christian might.
They were to be an example,
To my atheistically driven amble,
To encourage me to sing along,
In next years Christmas song.
My age and so my friends,
My calibre was not my ends,
So I didn’t come out my room,
Until nine o’clock did loom.
They grinned and laughed,
Evangelically so dashed,
But I kept my self dignity,
For no more ambiguity.
I never sang the next year,
With them, crooked in fear,
Awkwardly standing open,
Maybe to fall over stricken.
There was a disabled person,
At church, same condition,
But he was never normal,
As I was when informal.
Hymns never relaxed me,
Just petrified a lover to be,
So to demand on me disability,
Would’ve been inhumanity.
They talked to me at church,
About why I’d left in the lurch,
Families who wished a song,
Would in spirit come along.
So I just got over them,
Allegations and their stem,
Which set them up above,
The things that I do so love.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2015
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