The screen door bumps the jamb at two am

The screen door bumps the jamb at two a.m.

Won't latch. A bar of porch light

widens on the floor, then narrows back again.

One mosquito finds me through the night.

I've lived in places that don't close—

warped sills, a deadbolt that took

a shoulder and a hip to shut,

a window somebody painted over. Chose

them all, or they chose me.

The light stretches when the door

swings wide. I slap my arm.

A little blood. The dark keeps finding the floor.

I could fix it with a shoe.

A wadded towel. Something.

I watch the strip of light reach out,

cross the boards,

touch my hand,

pull back.