The Ritual

The engine is humming a low, steady tune.

I should be halfway to the office by now.

The sky is a sheet of dull afternoon,

but the house has a secret it won't quite avow.

I walk to the porch and I pull on the brass.

It’s locked. It was locked thirty seconds ago.

I watch my own breath on the door's narrow glass,

waiting for something I already know.

My knuckles are white from the weight of the grip.

I rattle the handle to hear the bolt click.

The time in the driveway is starting to slip,

but the itch in my brain is a needle, a prick.