Looking for Qi

Looking for Qi

My life is an open door, don't knock,
Sling your coat on a chair, there,
Lay down your hat,
There's water in the kettle, hard,
Please stay and have a chat,
Then read the tea,
If tasseography's your thing.

My life is an open book, dip in,
And thumb the index, look,
Turn down a corner,
Pencil the margins,
Feel free to underline
Anything I've written,
It's all perfectly fine.

If I'm out, sit down, relax,
Watch some TV, the BBC
Is still OK, they say.
Take your fill from the fridge,
There may be mould
On old Cheddar.

Rummage through drawers,
Bend your neck,
Digest the spines
On laden shelves, there,
Light a fire, get warm,
Have a beer, it's Beck's,
Or glass of wine, Sancerre
That's good, there's better red,
It's hard to find.

Visit the loo if you must,
It's by the stairs, they always are,
There's a problem with the flush
The plumber said he'd fix
Some eighteen months ago.
I'm sorry about the dust,
The smudges in the hall,
The little cobweb nests,
And places where moths feast
And dead flies fall.

Shower, change your clothes,
Just make yourself at home,
Go on, have your say like Goldilocks,
I've got all day.

One door is locked and secret;
If you're feeling stable
Pick up the key,
I'll leave it on the table in plain view
By the plastic-wrapped Sundays
With features on feng shui,
Comprehensively ignored

But don't adjust my set,
Or rearrange my furniture,
Or tell me how to find God.

The one true path
Is down the garden to my compost bins,
Where I throw the weeds.
If you see one, pull it up,
And turn out the lights when you leave.