Pivot Point

The kitchen door

always stuck, a little catch

before it swung.

Today, I took the screwdriver

to the silver plate,

tiny screws caked with grease,

the hinge itself

a dull, gray metal,

rusted near the pin.

It grated, a soft moan,

as I worked it loose,

then tight again.

Such a small thing,

this fulcrum point,

this metal piece,

that lets us in, or out,

or just holds things

nearly shut.