The Catch, Or, Not Quite Shut

The shed door, it just

swung back, again.

I pushed it, hard, felt

the splintered wood

give a little, but the latch

—that dull, rusted thing—

wouldn't line up.

My palm, it caught

the orange dust, flakes

of metal, like dry blood.

So stubborn. It scraped

uselessly, over the staple,

worn smooth, I guess, from years

of this, of trying

to hold something closed

that just didn't want to be.

And it wouldn't. Not really.

Just hung there, a gap

you could almost feel

the cold air through.

A kind of failure,

you know? A small,

persistent open.