The screw went in crooked and chewed up the grain

The screw went in crooked and chewed up the grain,

a high, screaming protest of metal on wood.

I was trying to build something to stifle the rain,

or at least make a corner that stood like it should.

But the alignment is off, the balance is wrong,

and the glue has hardened into a gray, ugly scab.

I’ve been staring at this failure for far too long,

prodding the wounds with a blunt, tired jab.

There’s sawdust in my hair and a grit in my eyes,

and the thing on the bench isn't a table at all.

It’s just a collection of expensive, dark lies

waiting for the moment it’s ready to fall.