ALL DOOR
This poem could become something
Coming up with something – as it does –
about a restaurant
But it’s only that ordinary place
That ‘hurry up and answer the phone’ place
Where I want to place an order
That cock-a-hoop waitress with the lounging voice
That won’t awake from sleep
Unless she gets a rise
That door-place where it seems all door
Smallnesses in tables and chairs
But largeness of door
Seemingly bigger cause it blows open and shut
And won’t close-shut of it’s own accord
When patrons enter and pay it no heed
It sticks ajar to play havoc with sinuses
With it’s draughty – icy – blast
Mingled with outside cigarette smoke
Of the filthy habit kind
Leaving it impossible to eat food with taste
seedsinmotiontruthnart 