The Shed's Squeal

The cat's soft pawing, a faint scratch

against the bathroom door. A simple thing,

that small, metal catch. I think of the latch

on the shed door, a stubborn, rusted swing.

It sticks, of course. Always does. The cold, pitted metal

scraped clean in spots where hands have fought.

A quick shove, a small, dull battle,

then a protesting squeal, sharp and fraught.

It opens, reluctantly, into the damp, dusty air.

Just a hook and an eye, a basic block.

But sometimes, that small barrier, sitting there,

feels like the only thing keeping out the shock

of everything that wants to get in. Or out.

That rusty click, what it's all about.