The One Who Knocks

Where do the words
that come pouring out
my pen reside?

Which hidey-hole
do they peak out from,
at high noon
on a clear sun day?

And where can I go
to seek them out?

For what a pain it is
that one must wait
for them to call
on you
for them to know
— in their recalicant

just sometimes,
I wish I could be
the one
who knocks.