December 22, 2012 § Leave a comment

who, I ask myself
as I close the door
to the world,
is responsible
for easing away
the scariest
of all
unknown things?

is there, maybe,
behind a jumbled desk,
with a title,
a pad of blood red ink
at his elbow
and a rubber stamp
with the words
at the ready?

someone in a paisley vest
with his sleeves rolled up
slowly working
his way through
stacks of submitted fears
that await review

I imagine there would be
an outer chamber
with chairs
for those
who are not pacing

I can picture them,
all staring at the clock
waiting for the bored
to call their name and
point to his door with
her silver letter opener

working the outcomes
over in their heads
trying to decipher emotion
on the faces
of those who come back out

the most timid
taking blank forms
to be filled out later
behind closed doors
of their own

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