What goes on behind that locked door,
Man up late with a light on?
No matter how hard I squint,
I can only see shadow figures
Through those curtains.
Are those saints with cheat codes
At the game console?
Is someone cooking in the kitchen?
The black iron skillet appears to be melting
A scoop of butter on which an ant clings.
Could El Greco be preparing an omelet
Of phantasmagorical pigmentation?
It could even be a birthday cake
From the way the shadows seem.
He could be asking his imaginary guests
With their collars ruffled to make a wish,
Or he could just be stumbling up to bed.
Is that a bat on the ornate bedpost
He will confuse in the morning
For a pair of dark sunglasses?
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