Does she still bolt the door against intruders, seated at
her table listening to the sound of our footsteps on her stair, we, mounting
that private mountain one precious footfall at a time, halting outside,
pounding to get in, each thud increasing the beat of her heart, she caught in
the shafts of sunlight through her array of windows, our fingers clutching her
door knob to get let in, feeling her warmth through the metal, as we turn it
this way and that, we, there to deliver what she secretly lusts for, if only
she would let us ooze in, we, outside imaging what it feels like to come
inside, here to make a delivery she requested if not in so many words, milkman,
pizza man, the man delivering packages via Prime, both wondering inside and out
what it might be like if she unlocks the door, getting what we both know we
need, special delivery.
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