Shut

[Achebe]

The door wasn't budging, and I couldn't remember why I was kicking it in the first place, or exactly whose door it was; but, I was compelled to keep kicking. If I could open the door, everything would be just fine. I gave up; and then, Mr Machismo opened my head with his boot. That didn't do the trick, at all. I tried explaining that it was the door that needed opening, but he didn't speak my language, and I was becoming woozy trying to understand his. I was happy, joyous, dizzy and dreaming; and ambulance lights, like industrial strength Christmas decorations, spun strobes across the sky.

Martin Amiss would be proud. This is too good to waste on a short poem. It deserves a full length book.