The grocery bags were biting deep into my wrist

The grocery bags were biting deep into my wrist

when I gave the handle that familiar, hard twist.

But the brass didn't bite; it just tilted and groaned,

like a tooth in a gum that’s been roughly dethroned.

I felt the guts of the mechanism slide,

the loose internal rattle of a failure inside.

Then a tiny, red screw hit the mat with a sound

that meant I was no longer anchored to ground.

I spent five minutes shaking the knob in its plate,

wondering if the lock would decide on my fate.

If the pins don't catch and the spindle won't stay,

I’m just a guest in a hallway, drifting away.