Waiting for the Gust

The red bar is scrolling across the bottom

of the local news. Outside, the screen door

is trying to shake itself off the frame.

I went out to the yard, but the weeds

have woven a net over the cellar doors.

The handle is a scab of rust.

There’s a web vibrating over the lock,

a tiny engineer waiting for the collapse.

I stood there in the first heavy drops,

wondering if I should even bother with the key.