Mechanical Advantage

Five minutes late and the clock is a shark.

I’m digging for keys in the kitchen dark

when the junk drawer hits a sudden wall,

refusing to move or to open at all.

I yank at the handle, the wood starts to groan.

A spatula’s wedged like a splinter in bone.

The silver neck’s locked to the laminate shelf,

a small piece of metal asserting itself.

It’s a leverage play, a domestic strike.

The house is a boss I no longer like.

I leave the keys buried, the drawer half-stuck,

and walk to the bus in my usual luck.