The humidity swollen the front door is stuck

The humidity swollen, the front door is stuck,

I have to lean in with the weight of my shoulder.

It’s a matter of grip and a matter of luck

as the house and the body grow slightly bit older.

I took a gray rag and a tin of the paste

to scour the tarnish away from the knob.

My face in the metal is stretched and displaced,

a distorted, oil-blackened, and miserable job.

But under the grime is a yellowing heat,

a hard, stubborn shine that won't admit defeat.