No Doorbell

The muzak is a tinny scrape

against the plastic.

I’m on hold with a woman named Diane

who has my life in a spreadsheet.

I press the pencil until the lead

splinters into a gray, jagged bone.

I draw the chimney four times,

a thick, greasy smudge of graphite

that looks like a thumbprint of soot.

I forgot the windows.

The door is just a vertical slit

with no brass to turn.

I’m building a box that can't be entered,

filling the margin of the gas bill

until the paper starts to tear.