Ghazal of the Open Door

They say to want this little is a kind of wealth —

then call me rich, who keeps a chair beside the door.

The road forgets the travelers it carried off;

the house remembers, and waits there beside the door.

Some pray to heaven, some to luck, and some to time.

I say your name once, like a prayer, beside the door.

Call the poet foolish, then — she will not move.

Quill keeps her watch, her one repair, beside the door.