Things Left Broken

The hook and eye miss each other

by half an inch. It's been like this

for years. No one asks me to fix it.

No one notices anymore that the bathroom door

swings open if you breathe on it,

if you're in there and someone leans against it from the hall.

I could fix it. The eye just needs to shift.

But I haven't. Something about leaving it broken

feels like an honest thing,

like the house telling the truth

about what it won't hold.