The Latch on the Fridge

No note. Just hardware—silver hasp and staple,

screwed into the fridge door, slightly crooked,

new metal on old plastic—someone's capable

of this much, at least. I looked

at it this morning, coffee going cold.

It's been there weeks. I know that now.

All three of us in this kitchen, the fold

and unfold of the mornings, and somehow

nobody's named it. Not at dinner,

not in the passive hour before bed

when we're all in here. The latch just sits, the winner

of a fight that never happened, never said.

I went to work. I came home.

The latch was there. The fridge hummed. No one home.