In this room with the old-fashioned door,
I’m certain there is someone’s eye beyond
The key hole. I sit at the desk to write,
And I feel the eye at the back of my neck,
Watching as my pen moves across the pages
Of my notebook. I stand. I take out my ID
Card on its lanyard and hang it
From the knob. Quieted, I return to my chair,
But when I look back at the door,
I see the card on its lanyard like
An angry diagonal slash of an arrow,
Judging me for blocking the view.

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