The Dropped Door

The top left hinge just let go.

Not with a bang, but a soft, tired groan,

a sigh of metal fatigue. The kitchen cabinet door

dropped an inch, then settled, crooked, uneven.

Its screws, worn thin, had just pulled free.

Little tunnels of sawdust where they used to be.

Now the door hangs, a gap-toothed grin,

showing the stacked, mismatched plates within.

Always ajar now, no matter how I push.

It just leans, a quiet admission of limits,

of stress.

Funny, the things you don't notice until

they stop holding up. The small, constant will

of two metal plates, a pin, a few turns.

And then, nothing. Just the crooked door, where the light burns

different now, showing the dust, the slight tilt.

My own jaw feels a little off kilter, suddenly, guilt.

For not seeing the wear, the slow, grinding fight.

For just expecting things to hold, with all their might.