The closet door at night can seem
Like something from a spooky dream
By day it’s full of shirts and shoes
And games with one or two parts loose
By night it is a darker place
A silent door, a black flat face
I stare at it from where I lie
And make up reasons, how and why
A pirate there, a ghost, a thief
A bat, a witch, a monster chief
Then I pull blankets to my chin
And hope that nothing will come in
But when the morning sun comes through
The closet is the same old view
Just coats and boxes, socks and string
And not one scary magic thing