August Slack

The humidity has made the frame go thick.

You have to pull it hard to make it unstick

from the jamb where the paint has all peeled.

I hear the neighbor's kid hit the driveway,

the screen door catching behind him

in that three-beat, frantic rattle.

The silver spring stretches out its neck,

whining like a dog at the end of a chain,

before the final slap hits the wood.

The sound stays in the room like a guest

who doesn't know when to leave.