Patior

[wombat1138]

O patio door,
O door upon my patio,
Mine offenses are myriad against thee.
For I have taken thee from thy rightful place;
Not with foresight nor cluefulness did I disassemble thee,
And I have neglected thy bits thereof.
For many seasons have I neglected thee:
Mine iniquities cling tight, like leaf-mould
Driven into thy mesh by winter rains,
Trampled deep by the scornful paws of cats.

And yet take pity,
Look kindly while I seek amends.
My offerings have been accepted:
Fresh shiny screws, the bulwarks for thy frame;
The proper wheelie things for in thy tracks.
These things I have sought out and offered,
Setting them in place as new for old,
Anointing them with the sweat of my brow.

All these things I have done, but now
My gifts are scorned and all my efforts nought.
Like a golden throne heaped with the dust of exile,
Like an empty bowl devoid of kitty chow,
See how thy rightful place awaits, how null and void.
Three wooden shims have been cast aside in splinters;
Pale blisters bloom like moonrise on my hands.
It makes me cross.

Door, I implore thee:
Return unto thy place on high,
Screen out small flying things as was thy wont,
Or I shall deck thee out with catnip.
And then there shall be meowing and leaping and rending of screens,
And then thou shalt be sorry.