The Lean

The framed print of that gray-green field,

always a fraction off, concealed

from any casual eye that passed.

But mine, it knows, it holds it fast.

Each morning, just before I leave,

I catch the edge, with no reprieve.

My thumb against the cheap wood frame,

a tiny push, a private game.

Just millimeters, barely there,

to line it with the doorframe square.

No one has ever seen me do it,

this small, precise, familiar habit.

Now straight. For eight hours, it will keep,

until the house wakes from its sleep,

and someone bumps it, just a touch.

It never really means that much.