The Friction Point

I have my heels against the walnut frame,

white-knuckled on the brass, pulling back

until the joints of my shoulders scream my name

and the wood begins to groan and crack.

It’s been six months of wiggling the left side,

trying to coax the batteries from the dark.

But something in the gut of it has died,

a stubbornness that’s deeper than the bark.

Finally it gives, a sudden, violent lurch,

and there, wedged in the groove like a bad luck charm,

is a copper penny, standing in its perch,

stopping the world with one small, metal arm.