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