Children and the Door

The door slams. One Mississippi.

The door slams. Two Mississippi.

I count because if I count

I'm not thinking about the rust

on the hinge—orange, papery,

breaking apart slowly

the way all things do.

Kids run in and out,

in and out,

and the hinge just takes it,

just keeps bending and closing,

bending and closing,

until one day it won't.

That's summer through a screen door:

the sound of small feet,

the metal crying,

the way rust spreads

like a disease that nobody stops

because it's just a hinge,

it's just a door,

it's just the way things break

when you use them enough

to matter.