Shim

The latch is clicked, the bolt is thrown,

but the hall is never quite my own.

A sliver of light, a wedge of cold—

the house is simply getting old.

I watched a spider try the floor,

to reach the dark behind the door.

A gust came through the uneven wood

and caught him where he stood.

He didn't crawl, he didn't slide,

he just vibrated, legs pulled wide.

Eight thin needles against the draft,

tossed back by a house that laughed.