#35. Access Not Granted.

The television drips.
Saturday leaks down the wall.

My mouth speaks facts
about forged papers.
The papers grow legs
and wander into WhatsApp.

Someone lifts a phone
like a seashell.
Inside it:
my name,
warped,
echoing.

A man
assembles relevance
from spare parts:
a cousin,
a discipline,
a place I never was.

Universities slide past
on wheels made of cheese.
Dates sag.
Continents swap coats.
One place becomes a corridor.
Another folds itself into a hat.

Memory is kneaded
until it fits the palm.
Truth becomes optional.
Contact declares itself inevitable.

Entitlement mistakes momentum
for permission.

A call rings
from the wrong century.
It rings again.
Insists.

The door softens.
The handle droops.
But nothing opens.

I remain seated
inside my own outline.
And the room behaves.

Outside,
hands keep knocking
on mirrors,
offended
they don’t turn into doors.