Shelf Life

The kitchen shelf, painted white,

with its fine, spider-webbed crack.

It leans, just a breath, to the right.

It’s been months. There’s no turning back.

Tried to put a new mug up high,

a cheap souvenir, bright red.

The whole thing shivered, a sigh,

and a teacup fell from its bed.

Didn't break, just bounced off the tile.

A miracle, small and absurd.

Another failure, stacked on the pile

of things I just never have stirred

myself to fix. It just sits.

A silent, wobbly, wooden critique.