KNOCK KNOCK

(Don't
answer
it.
Don't.
I'm tellin ya,
don't.
It could be loud
like a sonic boom
or as quiet as an ant
pissing on cotton;
it could be frantic
or like someone on their knees
praying
or rolling the dice
or breathing
heavily
from the climb
or sincere
like Clinton
or persuasive
like your last lover,
just don't
respond. Pretend
you're not there
and maybe
you'll make it
to see
another day,
a different
opening
open.
That might be
all you'll need
but probably not.

The knock
finds you.
Even if you stay
in bed
covers up
to your chin
it slides
next to you.
It could be
a white cell,
a renegade
looking
for a home;
your gums
could bleed,
your teeth
ache, your prostate
swell your uterus
drops, your muscles
atrophy.
No. Get up.
Tie your laces.
And if they don't snap,
go out.
Look both ways.
For cars and trucks and busses
and trains and people and dogs
and messengers and crazy Chinese
delivery bikers. Step over
cracks and avoid the pits.
Sit at one of those wonderful garden spots
in NYC outside and have a relaxing ten dollar
coffee or exotic tea concoction lost
in the exhaust fumes and diseased microbes
from inside the landfill of your neighbor's body.

And just when you thought
you made it,
just when the ten dollar tea
breaks your tongue's sweat,
a black sedan
seating five turbans
opens its curbside windows
to make a mistake
that won't be found out
for hours.)

Whatever it is
it's looking for you,
coming
on little cat's paws,
all
the
time.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2011