The Solid Seam

The kitchen shelf,

a crude angle,

screws too long,

bent themselves.

I’d tried to hang it,

years ago, with zeal.

A bit off plumb,

a leaning thing, to feel

like it might give.

But it didn’t.

Not a single quiver,

just held the chipped mugs, spent.

The old glue, a beige scar,

where the wood met wall,

a rough, hard bar,

caught it all.

Still there.

A steady hum.

Unremarkable,

but hasn’t come undone.