The Catch

The back gate, again.

It never opens clean.

You have to lift it,

lean into the groan

of old wood,

then feel for the give

in the rusted metal,

the cold catch.

Sometimes it snicks home,

a dull, solid sound,

the kind that settles things.

Other times, it just rests,

a ghost of a lock,

and you walk away, wondering

what could push it open

from the other side.