Tuesday Hinge

The rain is coming in from the East

slanting hard against the kitchen glass.

I’m limping toward the fridge for milk

and the joint gives a little hitch,

a dry click like a deadbolt sliding home.

I stepped off the curb on 4th

with the bags pulling my shoulders down

and felt it then—the sudden grind.

Sitting on the edge of the tub now,

I watch the bone shift like a tectonic plate

slipping under the skin, unanchored.

It’s a cheap hinge for a body

that still expects to carry everything.