Eye in the Keyhole
By John Herlihy

To wit, my life has no real key;
Nothing is opened to reveal me.
All my components securely locked;
My inner rooms are well blocked.

My life still has a key hole,
A fixture that no one stole.
It lies embedded in a door;
I gaze out, the world to explore.

My life has no fixed map,
No edges, no welcome mat,
No walls, ceiling, or doors,
Alas, no supporting floors.

My life has no construction,
No frail house of seduction.
Open space is all there is;
Gentle breezes give me fizz.

Wind and rain send me helter-skelter;
Porch awnings provide me shelter.
But that doesn’t bother me one iota;
Meager blessings amply fill my quota.

I imagine things to suit my taste,
Nothing is pursued in undue haste.
If I am unhappy with life as real,
I pretend to lend it a charming appeal.

I have taken to writing a few fluff poems;
They are my crystal ball, my secret omens.
People believe everything I write is true ,
Whereas many ideas I pull out of the blue.

I never appear as anything but myself,
Taken down from an overhead shelf.
If ever you happen to find my skeleton key,
An eye in the keyhole will reveal little old me.