The Loose Grip

Every morning,

the same small fight.

The brass knob, tarnished,

wobbles in my palm.

It gives, a little,

a sickly play before it catches.

Like a promise half-kept,

or a thought that just won't form.

A grating sound,

metal on metal, then the click.

A minor victory

over something that should just work.

I think of all the things

that barely hold.

The loose screws in the frame,

the hinge that groans.

It’s not just a knob. It's a daily test.