I find little comfort inside these four walls.

Behind my dead bolted front door lie

screens that burn my eyes,

dirty bland walls that disgust

me with their lack of effort,

carpet to match worn by years

of complacency and habit.

Broken blinds only present

to allow the teasing of the sun.

I can barely hear the crickets call

between the open and shut of a seemingly

revolving front door.

I think they’re calling for me.

They know my name.