In a poem we always seem
to find ourselves in another country
where our world walks down
an alley past shut doors.
We wonder about doors
and the mysteries behind.
Phone calls come and go, aeroplanes
pass overhead and the pool party
two doors away boisterously continues.
W really have no time for doors, for keys,
or other implements which may secure.
Poets are voyeurs looking in for a moment,
describing and ignoring the lifetime.