The Slightest Opening, Or, The Stubborn Gap

The kitchen door, it waits,

an inch too far, always. Or fates,

or just my hand, too slow, too blind.

It bangs my head. A stupid kind

of pain. A dull, soft thud, no sound

but what's inside, where shame is found.

It’s just a hinge. A screw. A lack

of will to push the problem back

into its proper place. But no,

it hangs there, like a silent show

of what I haven’t done. A mouth,

just slightly open, heading south.

Like it’s about to speak, or yawn,

since yesterday, since early dawn.

And here I am, still in its way,

and bumping, every single day.