Swear

The screen door has a broken latch.

The wind is trying for a snatch

to pull it open to the night.

I’m trying to hold it, with my might.

My hand is flat against the wood.

I’d keep it steady if I could.

But there’s a bend, a little crook

in my smallest finger. If I look,

I see the ghost of where we held.

The car was cold. The engine quelled.

We locked our hands to make a pact.

We didn't know the way we lacked

the strength to keep a simple thing.

The winter has a bitter sting.