Chris and I write a poem

There is a seductive door
That slaps my ass on the way out
I put a sticky note on the door
Seductive door labeled
Do not touch

We used a hanger to keep it open
Only now we can see
Into the dirty laundry room
where there are piles of underwear
like mountains of Vesuvius
erupting with pumice and dead skin
from two week’s old socks
nestled in porny white marks

I can’t go in the basement anymore
Even though I live in the basement
There might be gnomes
working away
“Don’t touch the door please,”
They will say matter-of-factly
Picking out rubies
amongst the underwear

All I ever find
are pinkie rings
receipts from
No Frills
And lost notes
from lost relatives


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