The Hiss and the Catch

The hydraulic arm is a rusted lung

that gasps whenever I try to leave.

I held the handle until it stung,

a scent of metal on my sleeve.

A moth is frantic against the wire,

shredding its wings on the charcoal mesh.

It doesn't have the sense to tire

or fear the snagging of its flesh.

I’ve been standing here for ten minutes now,

letting the house leak out its heat.

I wanted to go, but I don't know how

without the slam waking the whole damn street.