Tolerance

The metal strip is pulled and bent,

an edge of sudden, sharp intent.

I trip across the kitchen floor,

then swear I’ll fix it just once more.

The screws are sitting in a dish,

a silver, rusted kind of wish.

Their heads are stripped and smooth as stone,

while I just leave the thing alone.

The drill is dead, the bits are lost,

I simply live with what it cost.