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

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