The Building Had an Opinion

I was already in a bad mood—

laundry done, basket stacked, door ahead—

when the handle cracked its blue remark

into my thumb and left it red.

I yelped. Out loud. The man across the room

looked up from his phone, looked me over,

found nothing that required him,

and went back to whatever

he was watching. That was it.

No solidarity. No shared complaint.

Just me and the handle and the charge

I'd built walking that floor, the faint

smell of ozone, and the basket,

and the mood I'd walked in with, still whole,

and the building, having made its point,

swinging back. Letting me go.