Point of Friction

It’s three in the morning and the wood has swelled.

The secret of my leaving is poorly held.

The bathroom hinge gives a high, metallic scream

piercing through the center of your dream.

I find the blue can beneath the kitchen sink.

The chemical smell is enough to make me blink.

I watch one black drop slide down the brass,

a greasy tear for the years we let pass.

It’ll be quiet now when I walk down the hall.

I’ve fixed the only thing that mattered at all.