DEADBOLTS

by Jeffrey Park

Deadbolt locks, one, two, three, four, five
of them secure the steel-reinforced
door like bulletproof medals on the chest of
a combat-decorated war hero, purple heart,
silver star, three – yes, three! – medals
of honor, all attesting to devotion to country
and unwavering courage in the face of
imminent peril, such as that of keeping the
nameless enemy who poses as a pizza
delivery boy at bay.

And he plays right along, leaving a piping hot
mushroom pie on the stoop after pocketing
the bills that we slide out under the door.
Clever bastard, but to no avail. Our defenses
are impregnable: shoot the bolt, draw
the chain, no unauthorized entry permitted.
We take it in turns to keep watch, brown
shoe polish smeared boldly across our cheeks.
And no one comes in. And no one goes out.
And for obvious reasons, no one actually
eats the pizza.