Entrance

I can type a note down
and leave it taped
to the frame of the front door
and you’ll just walk
right past it.
Walk right by in your
white dress made from
so many duck feathers
and step on the escaped
hamster who is frantically
looking for a pickaxe his size
to tunnel through the wall.
The ultimate tragedy,
while his red guts smear on
the brown wood floor,
is the wideness of the open
door you left for him
but he could not conceive of.
Your scream will be like ice rain,
or the feeling when your whole mouth
tastes like blood, and while you’re wiping off
what’s left of that poor thing I will reiterate:

His name was Jameson,
I bought him for you,
and you killed him.