who ?

who stands there knocking
shushing out secret little whispers
some sly traveler, gone lost
may be distraught
who thinks i have some trust
to give

or brings me some sort of
indiscretion
who doesn't know those days
have all been used
since scattered, here
there, left on slippery roads
some where away

rap rapping, and i hear a shuffle
of anxious feet, soft and
unprotected feet, brown from
a prying sun, where fog's
been burned to mist, frail
inconclusive

oh tap tapping, jumpy and gone
out of rhythm, on my uncared door
paled down to colorless wood
cut out of an ashen tree
howled out of a neighbor's grove
stolen

let me sip my pinot, sparkled
frosty, begging on this summer
clad day, wisdom sloshed in paper
cups, never to be recycled
it gives me slabs of poesy
raw

such persistent lack of syncopation
rowdy on my steps, spying on
my garden path, slinking with
anticipation, memorizing stone by
stone, where i sleep in autumn
unguarded

how can i write my memoirs, knowing
some one stands outside this door
full of thoughts not of my own
a stranger, a beggar, a thief
or a liar, come to plunder all i
am

but i have a place where none can
touch me, take from me, where i am
cherished, and adored
or have i simply
forgotten