[pandora's] Box

They say
when any door closes,
somewhere
a window opens—

and damn,
that breeze is chill,
a silent, sneaking draft,

and this fortress,
nigh impregnable,
still has its chinks.

It’s dusty,
this warren,
a confusion of
bars and padlocks and chains,
hidden somethings and
twisted stairs
that lead nowhere,
niches and nooks and
boltholes
in a shadowed keep
that likes to pretend
it’s bulletproof.

But if nothing gets in,
then nothing gets out,
and the tears are flooding the basement.

The soundproofing works against you
when you’re hoping to be heard.

They say
scream "fire,"
never "rape,"
if you actually want help to come.

And now the infamous problem:

What to do
when you’ve built an airtight box,
a neat little fix
for all those nasty problems,

and sealed yourself in with them.