Settling

The wood has bowed away from the jamb

leaving a mouth that won't stay shut.

I sit on the tile with a ham sandwich

and watch the November air press in.

A moth walks through the dark slot

like it owns the lease.

It doesn't even have to squeeze.

The streetlamp outside sends a yellow blade

across the floor, cutting the room in two.

I should have called the landlord in June

but the heat made the swelling feel like a promise

instead of this slow, drafty divorce.