Into and out of

With mincing steps, sometimes
I storm the doors
blood-deep in gin and whores
and stride with purpose orderly
inside, where I stand fast,
hold forth
and ride it out
until I'm spent. So topical!
So eloquent, so passionate
I pour it out. Then I
bow imperceptibly,
to all the room
which I might well have
not just done. It was
quite imperceptible! But
thoughts that count
are carried through
in some amount.
And then I turn, as if
with some decision, and
I storm the doors again
- the other way, this time.
It's pull! Don't push,
remember, on such finest shades
of gesture hang
impressions made
just now and when. I storm
the doors, and I go out.
My steps are mild,
mincing then.