her magic number must be 8
a rattling door handle from over the road
rouses me from a nightmares grip of grey,
that poor woman is at it again
her ocd, her magic number must be 8.
oh, here she goes again
she’d better hurry or she’ll be late,
but she doesn’t care to be trivialised
because her magic number is 8.
(2014)
a poem about a woman over the road from me who drive herself crazy with her ocd door checking
