Mechanical Failure

The Uber is three minutes out

and I am still in my towel, pacing.

I grab the pine knob and pull,

but the wood gives a dry, stubborn growl.

One side slides, the other stays,

wedged at a sharp, mocking tilt.

I yank until the screw lets go,

leaving me with the handle and the guilt.

Just a raw, splintered hole

where the clean socks are buried deep.

I’ll go to the party in these,

and the secret of the drawer I’ll keep.