The Catch

I’m twenty minutes into the red.

The clock is a blunt instrument

and the kitchen won't let me go.

The drawer is jammed, a mouth

full of silver and plastic teeth.

I yank until the wood groans.

It’s caught on the meat thermometer,

that metal needle pointing at the failure.

The side of the frame is a mess

of white, jagged scars where I’ve

pried it before with a butter knife.

Just give me the keys.

Let me get out of here.