I’m late for a funeral and looking for a tie

I’m late for a funeral and looking for a tie,

but the kitchen junk drawer has decided to lock.

It gives an inch, then stops with a dry,

wooden sound that mocks the tick of the clock.

Inside, the potato masher has reared its head,

a zig-zag of metal wedged tight against the frame.

It’s a stupid, domestic kind of dread,

calling me out by my clumsy, middle name.

I pull until the wood begins to groan and spit,

splinters appearing like teeth in the gap.

Everything I own is a slightly bad fit,

a series of parts waiting for the snap.