Don’t Come Knockin’
Three’s a crowd, that’s what the sock stretched
over the doorknob means. The pair of us invite you
to take in a movie. At the theater. The multiplex
is running double features. Buck up.
One day you’ll be the happy asshole,
dabbling in procreation, in here coupling,
roomie. I’ll be shut out cold, stuck respecting
the sock semaphore, ambling town to amble,
to kill a few hours, hating on your luck a smidge.
You get mixed feelings, but it’s in the lease:
each lord of the manor-flat, though too strapped
to live alone, may seize what shining moments
he can, save them from untimely interruption.
The sacred law of cotton over brass.