The World’s Barricade

These doors have tightened around her,
jambs shrinking to avoid the call of suitors;
hinges hang stiff to any levering, handle
unmoving under any enquiring hand,
keyholes stuffed closed with rags.

The wood’s thickness stifles all knuckles,
doorbell unwired, useless adornment.
Brass knocker left to rust, made immobile
through a catalyst of rushed corrosion.
Forget about looking for a window,

chimney chute bricked up too.
Best grab the pickaxes, beat the shovels,
tunnelling through seems the only way:
hammer through concrete and steel,
bricks compressed by days alone.

A small part of her curiousity remains,
rattling around like spare blood in a head
freshly fallen into the basket.
But life has given up its foundations
and now the house is shrinking too.