mmmccxl

The Half-Open Closet

There’s my newest
jacket, orange-ish,

with inlay of cartoon-
like silhouette which I

press my back against
to hide whenever I wear

it. The chartreuse-
colored twin-sized

bed sheet I put up in
an attempt to shroud

the disarray that is
my closet’s contents

hangs open at a
diagonal, as if per-

haps in invitation to
join the hangers, skewed

at various odd angles and
the blobs of dirty laundry

bunched up beneath
an extra chair I’ve

attempted to hide,
but keep, just in

case of company.
It’s a little bit de-

pressing, I think, as
I sit on the head of

my bed, reading
and writing, how

the closet (maybe
it’s open for a means

of escape, in which
case I empathize and

stand in solidarity
with that awkwardly-

hued and mis-dangled
curtain) works in cahoots

with the entire room, now
that I shamefully see it,

against me, its sole and
solitary human inhabitant.

And so, I press my nose
so deep into my book

it acts a pair of blinders,
and hide my entirety in-

side these words in a
stubborn attempt to

ignore the pouty pleas
addressed to me by

my very own glum
conspiratorial home.