UNDER THE RUG
With a shy, sly fist the captive knock, knock, knocks
On a door set in the floor of a carpet shop.
He was swept under the rug like a bug long ago,
And he wishes to revisit why they hid him so.
They, however, thinking clever, are against this plan
And the knock, knock, knocking of this little man,
For the things that he will bring into the light are raw,
Sad wounds—it’s far too soon—considering what he saw.
Little creature, ugly features turn your sweets away.
They must hide you or abide by all the tricks you play.
They are not risk takers; they are fairytale makers
Weaving orientals—monumental promise breakers.
Give no quarter to their words; don’t imagine you’re preferred,
Or dear friend, you’ll meet your end under the floor unheard.