The Margin

I can hear the clink of silverware

and my sister’s high, bright laugh

drifting from the dining room.

I’m sitting on the edge of the guest bed,

watching the floor like it might open up.

There’s a vertical slice of yellow light

on the carpet. It fluctuates,

widening and shrinking whenever someone

walks past the door I left ajar.

A shadow cuts the stripe in half

every few minutes, a brief eclipse.

I look at the hinge, where a single hair

is caught in the metal gap,

trapped in the grease and the paint.

It’s just hanging there, while the party

goes on without it.