With My Jeans On

Every night, as ritual would have it, though I sleep uncluttered, I'm sure to leave my jeans next to my bed. I want to meet them with my jeans on. One night I heard a door open. And close. It sounded just like mine. I lay dead still for a burning ulcer of eternity it seemed, then rose and put my jeans on. But it was not my door. I took off my jeans, folded them neatly, placed them next to my bed. Last night I heard doors thudding. Breeze blown. As if something had been let open. I lay dead still for a burning ulcer of eternity it seemed, then rose and put my jeans on. But all was just the same. I took off my jeans, folded them neatly, placed them next to my bed. I hate the sound of opening, closing and breeze blown thudding of doors in the night. 29th April 1997