The screen door slams a sudden crack—

The screen door slams, a sudden crack—

sharp as the July heat that sticks.

A crooked latch pins the light,

finger-thin, on the floor’s cracked wood.

That little crack breathes slow smoke

from the neighbor’s porch, cig smoke

curling into the sticky dusk,

heat trapped behind a latch that fails.

The door leans, not quite closed,

like someone too tired to push it right,

and the air inside hums, thick and loud,

pressing close as the dark seeps through.

Outside, a moth beats its ragged wing—

clumsy, close enough to feel the slap,

a sound that’s almost a goodbye,

trapped in the latch that won’t hold.