The copper door speaks to me
for it is also lonely.
No one ever offers up a query
as to why it rusts.
Its housing trust is a rice-container building
that wears its own scaffolding on the outside.
No one climbs its bones for a look on the inside.
Its rice grains must be dry
and too abundant to hide for very long.
I wonder if a bomb
could breach its metal skin to spill.
And would the scaffolding shrill,
leaving any wonderment at nil?
Still, perhaps, its maintained; its gotta be.
If its anything like me,
its cereal congress is a spree
just waiting to unlevee.
And someone has to plug up its holes
to prevent a vulgar overspill.
It’s a food anarchist with a drill,
lighting up the spectator’s dollar bills
for the thrill.
Still, I have not had my fill.
I will not be denied the innards of the copper door.
I don’t even know what inhibitions are for,
but I understand that the privilege is not for sale.