My Doors Are Open…

I used to love writing poems. In middle school and high school I wrote poems all the time… some of them I’d show, some I wouldn’t. But so many times I truly felt them. In my mind they were perfect, and I didn’t appreciate any criticism, constructive or not. They said what I was feeling, and they were for me only. Who cared what anyone else thought?

Now that I’m back in school, one of my classes this semester is a creative writing class, and the first half of the semester we’ve been working on poems. Did you know there was actually a technique to writing poetry? That it is actually very structured and purposeful? That how the author feels about it really doesn’t matter if the author intends to publish it? It’s really an amazing art, and I’ve really learned a lot from this class. And, I’ve realized how haphazardly all my previous poems were written.

That being said, I’m going to take a chance and share one of my recent poems. The assignment was to write a poem from the perspective of an inanimate object talking to someone or something. We’re talking about it in class tonight, so I may post an updated version later, but here goes.

My Doors Are Open

Sir, come in, my doors are open.
Up or down? Please press a button.
Fourth floor you say? I’m on my way.

What burdens you so when you come to work
That you carry a flask in the pocket of your shirt?
Your face is creased; your eyes are sunk;
To get through the day, must you come in drunk?

Not one to talk? Nothing to say?
We’ve reached the fourth floor, sir. Have a nice day.

Sir, come in, my doors are open.
Up or down? Please press a button.
Eighth floor you say? I’m on my way.

Your Armani suit is pressed and fits well;
Your hair’s combed with mousse; is that Dior I smell?
Your nails are trimmed, your skin browned by the sun,
But where do you go when your work is done?
You put on your wedding ring as we passed the third floor,
Why was it in your pocket before?
If I were so brave I’d wager a guess
That it’s not your wife’s lipstick smudged on your chest.

Not one to talk? Nothing to say?
We’ve reached the eighth floor, sir. Have a nice day.

Lady, come in, my doors are open.
Up or down? Please press a button.
Sixth floor you say? I’m on my way.

Fendi on your shoulder; Tiffany on your neck;
A necessary costume to cover the wreck.
You can’t hide the twitch though you fold your arms tight.
Are those tracks on your arm from last night?
Better paste on a smile and pull down your sleeves;
If your boss knew your state, he wouldn’t be pleased.

Not one to talk? Nothing to say?
We’ve reached the sixth floor, ma’am. Have a nice day.

Young man, come in, my doors are open.
Up or down? Please press a button.
Twentieth floor you say? I’m on my way.

Have you been traveling? You’ve quite the tan.
You’re obviously an educated man.
Harvard Law School your briefcase says,
As does the crimson silk tie you caress.
Ah yes, take it off, make yourself at home.
Why do you sweat so? And let your eyes roam?
Don’t move that tile, sir, we’re moving fast.
See how quickly the walls go past?
Please unfasten your tie from the ceiling bar
And push back the tile, we’ve still to go far.
Excuse me sir, but is this a joke?
With your head in the loop you’ll surely choke.
Is that why you’re standing on your briefcase so?
Now you’ve kicked it aside, with six floors to go.
We’ll never make it in time I’m afraid,
For someone to help and you to be saved.
Your hands grasp your neck and I fear you regret
But I am no help, and we’re not there yet.
I’m sorry, sir, that life was so grim
You chose my doors to end it in.

Now you cannot talk. There’s nothing to say.
We’ve reached the twentieth floor…