My doorknob is keeping its counsel.
It’s been silent now for days,
Close lipped and dismissive of praise
As I attempt to flatter it open.
It’s not having any of that.
It’s afraid of a virulent virus
And thinks all doors are a danger.
It’s certainly not enamoured
Of admitting the random strangers
Who leave deliveries outside, on floors!
It’s proud of its strength of will.
It used to turn for me daily.
I went to Paris in France
Was entranced by the sights I saw.
Not anymore.
I can’t open the door
With this immovable knob.
I berate it.
I hate it.
Could I slip through the keyhole?
I wonder.
I probably could.
Not sure I should, that’s all.
My doorknob is often so wise,
Altruist and even brave
But such a failure of joy
Has caused me quite a surprise.
I surmise that the door knocker,
That hangs on the door outside
Has come out in strategic support.
They are using some mutual force.
The window’s too high.
Perhaps I can fly.
I can always grow wings, of course.