The August humidity has a weight to it

The August humidity has a weight to it,

swelling the cherry wood until the joints scream.

I was only trying to wipe away the grit,

but the pressure had to go somewhere.

A single 'tink'—not a crash, just a sharp note

like a fingernail clicking against a tooth.

The glass gave way in a jagged, diagonal line,

and the wedding portrait sagged in its seat.

A shard slid under the radiator,

a bright triangle reflecting a ball of grey hair.

It sits there in the dark,

pointing at everything I’ve neglected to move.