Sunday’s Villanelle

“Can’t Find the Door”

My window keeps the sunshine out.
Its dank competes
with a pint of stout.

Its bottom squats in rigid grout
comfy as a seat.
My window keeps the sunshine out.

Dust motes buck in other routes;
the sunbeams tossed their key
with a pint of stout.

I haven’t left in weeks about;
my feet have gone gangrene.
My window keeps the sunshine out,

but I’m not the sort to pout
in silence, hid beneath my sheets
with a pint of stout;

I’m pleading: “Call someone, anyone!” I shout,
“I’m trapped in a Gothic conceit!”
My window keeps the sunshine out
with a pint of Stout.