sometimes, like a tortoise,
I shoot back into my closet space,
and then, feeling foolish,
I lurk about, scowling
as a crooked pair of cartooned eyes
behind the shuttered doors.
I rub my carpet for reassurance,
I crouch and wave my arms and
I make faces and obscene gestures
at the backs of the doors
where no one really sees me
being so rebellious.
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