I suppose my place is subordinate,

             to more inviting figures hidden behind your closet door.

Skeletons?

No.

You have more than skeletons in there, my dear:

            you have a thousand souls,

            just waiting to break free from the darkness.

And I, the lesser of these monstrosities,

           do wait in line among the others,

           waiting to see a ray of light,

           or two,

           or none.

No assurance, no.

My place is not to be but to perceive that,

           which I will never feel,

           and chance does point to intimacy:

           improbable.

What else have you to do, my dear?

Get a new closet:

           the space is getting crowded at the back of the line.

Get a new closet, my dear:

           more and more are waiting

           to wait in line.

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