The Unlatched Gate

The side gate, heavy,

sagged on its lower hinge.

I grabbed the iron, cold and rough,

the rust flaked off like dried-up skin.

Lifted, pushed,

tried to guide the bar

into its waiting slot.

It caught, then slipped.

A click, not quite a lock.

A gap remained,

a thin, dark slice

between the wood and post.

The wind picked up, a sudden gust,

and I felt the gate

tremble beneath my hand.

Not secure.

Never quite shut.

Just resting there,

a promise half-kept,

a small space

where anything

could still get through.