For the Squeaking Door I Don’t Have

 

I make noises like a squeaking door

When I get up from sitting cross-legged

On the bed, where I’ve been tapping

On the laptop surface that sits in front

Of me, there

 

I make the noises verbally, that is—for

Now, my joints are fine

 

I don’t know, it’s my way to speak into

The silence and the solitude: a way to

Say, I’m here

 

For all the world to respond to, which,

Of course, it doesn’t

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