I am a window that is painted shut;
The sides won’t budge
Even with the glass cracked.

Burglars can try all they like,
But their hands become fatigued
And they only leave with a sigh—

But not all of them wear
Black ski caps--and I cannot
Seem to loosen, even for those
With placid requests and
Baby’s breath hands,
Gentle as they try to pry open
All that is against them.