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.
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