The Catch

The screen door has a temper.

You have to lift the handle slightly,

then pull it toward your chest

before the metal tongue will seat itself

inside the frame.

I’ve watched the brass turn pale

where the pad of a thumb has pressed it

ten thousand times since the house was new.

It’s a smooth, shallow bowl of a dent,

shaped exactly like a nervous habit.

Tonight, it clicked on the third try.

A dry, hollow sound that means

the house is officially small again.

I’m the one who checked it,

and I’m the one who stayed inside.