Three Times Over

The house lets out a sudden, wooden pop,

the sound of a joint cooling in the frame.

I was almost asleep, waiting for the mind to stop

repeating the sequence, calling my name.

I’m back in the hallway, bare feet on the floor.

The brass of the handle is cold and too bright

from how many times I have checked the back door

in the middle of a perfectly ordinary night.

I turn it left. I pull it hard against the jamb.

It is locked. It was locked an hour ago.

I am a reasonable, tired, grown-up man

who can't trust the one thing I already know.

My thumb follows the groove of the keyhole,

a ritual I perform until the skin starts to itch.

There’s a hole in the bottom of my weary soul

and I’m trying to plug it with the flip of a switch.