28-Degree Dowel Rod

The door looks secure
But the lock latch lies loose
Barring entrance only to mosquitoes and the timid

Security comes courtesy of a wooden pole
A rigid rod readily rammed
Between the glass door and fiberglass frame

It lies inclined at 28 degrees
An acute angle’s anger ably providing
Tension to keep the world without from the world within

I could snap it over my knee
Weak white wood wrenched, warping into splinters
But pressed against its length, it finds strength

A lock is a secret thing
Known only to persistent prodding, proximate pestering
You must get close to know the truth

But a 28-degree dowel rod says
“Head hither, henceforth heed,
Leave this place, and know me not.”

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