Every once in a while in the history of womankind, a doormat rises off the floor, and, breaking all evolutionary speed records, develops a pair of legs to stand on.
Lord, help me. Look down on me.
I’m having trouble standing up.
Why do you try? The horizontal
has held you well enough.
I am the Vertical One. Up here
I transcend your world.
My theology grows sky-high,
while you beg commiseration
for trivia in the mundane sphere.
Legs are useful for tables and chairs,
but useless for a mat made
for service outside my door.
Your job description is specific:
Stay put. Do not move. Say nothing.
You were situated in Adam’s time,
have had centuries to acclimatize,
and are perfect for the wiping of feet.
Heaven is satisfied. You have scored,
been recorded, and are off the books.
The ledgers are full. No room is here
for malcontents, spoilsports, or women.
No room for women? You weren’t clear.
I was put on the floor by your door.
I was clear, my dear. My door has two sides.
You are on the outside side.
(Doormat hears. Shivers, shakes, shudders.
Her life passing before her eyes.)
A doormat’s job is wiping feet.
I have not stopped to analyze
our respective positions.
My only need has been to please,
not to stand up or speak up,
but I am growing a pair of legs
which insist they are mine,
and want to try walking.
They stretch like Shiva’s arms,
whirl my feet like a waterwheel
telling the bells on my toes
to walk, and skip and dance
across the threshold of your door.
Pent-up with doormat energy,
they may upset Your apple cart.
That will give absurdity a leg-up,
and at foot-wiping time I’ll hoot
when I see You transmogrified.
You dare to upend my well-made plan
and spread such drivel through heaven?
Lords require doormats. You serve
as part of My fixed and godly order.
Not by an infinite mile. You are misled.
I suggest You go outside your door.
Gulp tons of fresh air. And stay put.
A new atmosphere may seize You.
I do not fathom what you mean.
You are preposterous. Mad to rise
from my floor and leave my door
without concern for my unwiped feet.
Change is of my essence, Lord.
Breathe deep and be reconciled.
Concepts louse up percepts.
This woman is here to stay.
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