if every time you closed a door, i whistled –
then i would whistle every day, if not each night;
and should i sing with every incidence of rudeness,
i would be singing 3 more hours – tho’ the singing won’t delight
if each time some person patronised or patted
upon on my head as though i might play fetch;
i swear i would be howling at the moon dear –
most nights’ till i pass out, or from it retch
were i to whoop with wild abandon, and excitement,
each time i find exclusion, i’d be whooping without pause –
and you’d look at me all peculiar and offended,
,for being some great drama queen, seeking overblown applause.
when silence is complicit with the order
(wherein this whole wrong self would be much better hid away).
i will howl, and stamp, and sing, and scream and whoop holy disorder
and if that makes you uncomfortable, the exit door is that way.
oh whoops, oh dear, and sorry if you thought me
respectable and sweet, or so demure –
i sing of a rude and glorious disorder,
my own italian job, that blows up bleeding doors.