Sunday 3/25/2007 12:22:00 AM

She held the doorbell between her lips. Like a cigarette still burning. She snuck into it. Like underwear. The pretense. The accusation. That she might be there. A filter wringing through her thoughts. In the clenched fists of desperate lovers. Partial friends. The cliches of older men.

The doorbells. The first in a series of lies she's thankful she told.

The doorbell everywhere. Between her legs. In the remnants of her nail polish. In the shadows of their pants. As the sound drew its sketches. Preparing for the final portrait. Mocking the digestion as the bed tried to swallow them. And failed.

The doorbell. The furtive chime of answers to questions no one asked.

The doorbell. Always asking.

Who's there?

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2021. All Rights Reserved.