Screen Door Tear

The clack, then the low thud

of the screen door closing,

never quite flush.

It’s been this way for years.

The flies know.

Now, a new snag,

just below my sightline,

a silver rip in the mesh,

a small scream in the aluminum,

where some frantic thing

pushed through, or clawed.

The afternoon sun slices

its thin, bright line

through the tear, a sharp

incision in the grid.

A little freedom,

a little break.

And through it, a bee,

slow and fat,

finds its way in.

The season turns.