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hearing them stamp
the snow off their feet
I look through the peephole
even before the bells rings
I did not invite them,
know if I let them in
they'll say
they can't stay
but will
Inside, they's discover:
me at age seventy
my teeth out of place
　
in a glass on the table,
the boxes full of poems,
my collection of magazines
and other litter
If I let them
into my swelling house,
my dwildling life,
they will only add to the mess
with their soiled wet shoes,
make a scene
at my not having told them
it's my birthday
Praise be the peephole
I don't have to let them in
