Holding On

It was buried under a stack of dead batteries

and rubber bands that lost their snap.

I don't have a line or a yard,

just a dryer that eats my socks in the dark.

I squeezed the wood and the rusted spring

gave up, biting into the meat of my thumb.

Now my hand smells like old pennies

and the wood is split in two on the floor,

useless as a broken jaw.