Under Pressure

The dryer is dead as a box full of sand,

and the towels are sodden and grey.

I’m trying to finish the work with my hand,

to keep all the mildew away.

The wood gave a groan and a jagged white crack,

a splinter that bit at my skin.

The spring shot away and it didn't come back,

it let all the heaviness in.

The rusted-out coil is a scrap on the floor,

a circle of orange and grit.

I can’t hold the weight of the day anymore,

and the pin wasn't ready for it.