The challenge here was a poem about a closed door. I've taken that figuratively again. The real door in this poem is glass and the characters can easily see what's behind it. What's unknown is the door of the future, but it's slowly creaking open on disturbing possibilities...
There is obviously nothing. Nothing whatsoever. In today's world that makes me feel like this.
Move on citizens. Nothing to see here.
Of tea and politics
They have now hanged the suspect spy
just outside the door. He's swinging
from the cast iron sign
shaped like a teapot. It creaks alarmingly.
This afternoon is waxing quite complex.
The police chief's voice still thunders from the kitchen.
He's on to topics wide as loyalty, respect for law,
and macaroons, and fear. I beckon the waitress near
and ask:
Could I just have another scone?
The afternoon moves on towards an evening,
which no-one present dares to guess.
The hanged man stills.
I shall bury him, he was my servant.
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