Raw Wood

The handle went, a sudden crack.

My wrist went spinning, sharp and fast.

This door's a monument to slack

I built myself. It's built to last,

this rotten habit. Now the wood,

all splintered, raw where metal sat,

stands open. Misunderstood

my own inertia. Just like that,

the whole thing broke. I stared, I guess,

at raw wood. What a goddamn mess.

The lock undone. Nothing to bless

this state of rot, this aimlessness.