Opportunity hammers on the door
and waits in vain to see it swing ajar.
(Inside the room one scents a dream-filled drawer).
Must obsolete things stay the way they are?
That wooden entrance wouldn’t open free
for all the debris lying on the ground.
The blood poured from my bent and broken knee
and by its sanguine sourness hope was drowned.
It’s clear that there is only one small chance
to grasp a nettle by its wilting leaves —
a narrow window in the deathly dance
through which a weary body stumbly weaves.
Not satisfied to leave it all to fate
encamped upon that threshold I shall wait.
© 2011, Alan Morrison