Doorbell

I spoke to the peephole about you.
The welcome mat wants to weigh in
And the door is tired of your foot.

You’re pressing me
and I’m close to giving out.
The mat is downtrodden
and the peephole doesn’t trust your eyes.

We keep trying to tell her this,
The one who stands behind us.
If only once she’d support our endeavor

We’d retire you
and lie dormant in protest if you returned.

Instead, she allowed you inside
And it’s up to the mirror now to show that you have

no reflection.

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Talk at me while I eat

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