Set Screw

I gripped the brass to keep the noise inside,

but the spindle is loose and the handle has lied.

I’ve been watching the slack grow for half a year,

ignoring the rattle that anyone could hear.

The graphite I sprayed left a smudge on the wood,

a dark, greasy ring where the hardware once stood.

It clicked in the casing, a sharp, sudden crack,

and I felt the whole house staring at my back.

I should have found the wrench. I should have turned

the tiny screw before the metal was burned

and the threads were stripped to a silver-gray sand.

Now the whole damn thing just shifts in my hand.