Grinding Teeth of Wood

The kitchen drawer. The junk drawer.

A black hole of receipts and bent paperclips.

I pulled, expecting ease, but it caught,

a shriek of wood on wood,

like teeth grinding, wrong.

My coffee jumped, a hot smear

down my clean white shirt,

and the drawer, it stayed

half-open, half-closed,

mocking.

A tiny splinter, a raw groove,

where the cheap plywood

had fought against itself,

just like me, always

trying to get things open,

and only making a mess.