The Locked Door

It's nice and cold up here,

With muted lights and silent sounds,

And dark drapes drowning the view.

The bedcovers threw lazily away,

I lazily lounge back on my chair,

Legs half propped up, most unbefitting,

But who cares, when no one sees?

Bowls and cups adorn the floor,

Cartons and bottles lie close at hand,

Half read books strewn on the bed

Waiting for eyes to finish their tales.

I can argue with strangers somewhere else,

And throw a tantrum at things gone bad,

My life, my self, all behind the door,

The barrier between freedom and chains;

Ironic that the solid wood would free me,

When it is intended, to wall me in.

One thing looks out of sorts here-

And it is my mother, lying down,

On a bed that is neither made nor clean;

Talking, like worlds didn't cross over.

It's easy to assume a nonchalant air,

And not worry about the life underneath;

The world of my mother, of duty and work,

It always calls for her, constant and true.

I get to have a closed-door, to hide behind,

But she neither wants nor needs one,

As she's called for by a myriad of voices;

There is no silence in her world, a jungle-

Of cares and needs for others, not her self.

The little time she gets she sits with me,

A respite from I know not what all;

Smiling at me and stroking my hands

A day's passage delivered, perfunctorily.

When she notices my door is locked

She often sulks downstairs, grouching;

But one call or knock is often enough,

And I rush to open it and let her in.

The door may shut me in some time,

But cannot turn me away from her,

For the door can open as well as close;

Only I still retain my choice to ignore

Orders and needs, that she cannot spurn.