The Door

The Door

Lonely the days

when the folks are gone.

I was young

and did not understand.

Days turn into weeks and more,

and mostly,

I just stare at the door.

I nap, and sit

by the window longing

to run through that green

and chase a bird songing.

Oh, they return.

But don't they think

that I, too, live a life?

We're not in sync.

Imprisoned, yet free,

Fed and sheltered,

I guess I'll just wait.

Hmm… that door needs painting.

agd