The Hole in My Door (a poem) - [2010]

The Hole in My Door

There's a hole in my door, a hole in the wood.
It lets in a draft, as any hole should.
It isn't a crack, or a fracture, or tear,
and I do not know how or why it is there.
  
There's a hole in my door, the size of a coin.
I should know; I've measured it time after time –
each morning, using an old copper piece,
to see if it's grown even the least.

But the hole in my door has never once changed:

a penny-sized 'O', forever the same,
and perfectly framed by the frame of my door –
dead in the centre – I've measured of course.

There's a hole in my door, which I stare at, at night,
when the curtains are closed and they turn out the light;
but the light in the hallway finds its way through.
Through the hole in my door, it enters the room.

There's a hole in my door that lets in the light.
I sit up and stare when I'm in bed at night,
holding my covers tight up to my eyes,
staring out over them, waiting to hide.

The hole in my door is enough for an eye,
to peek through and see me, to sit there and spy.
I see the light flicker and cover my head
and shut my eyes tightly and freeze in my bed.

There's a hole in my door, at which I still stare,
though my eyes may be closed and the covers still there.
‘Til, bravely, I dare to look then once more
and stare at the light through the hole in my door.

And the light will continue to flicker until,
tired with hiding and staring, I will
lay myself down, forgetting the eye,
to dreamlessly sleep in the flickering light.

There's a hole in my door, but they've seen it too,
easy to fix with some wood and some glue.
They measure the hole, the size of a penny –
perfectly round – how very uncanny.

So the hole in my door now lets in no light,
and now there's no hole to stare at, at night.
I hold myself tighter, and hide even more.
Now no one can watch through the hole in my door.