They ring the doorbell and stand there
their eyes wide, like this time, the door will
swing open. This time, they will be
invited in by someone just dying
to find out the good news. There, there,
we can help, when there’s a will
and all that, a cup of tea would be
great, yes. They stand there dying,
wearing Sunday best on a Tuesday. Silly, but
still, always, somehow, there.
They don’t know the first-floor window is
cracked. I am eyeing them with no
intention to indulge them. I don’t need
more rules or instructionsto
make me feel like I know where to go.
They turn around and go to the next door
and I return to scrolling through Netflix. That’s that.