The Grip

The tie is too tight and the suit is too thin.

I’m trying to go out, but the house keeps me in.

I reach for the brass and it gives with a sigh,

a loose, spinning thing that refuses to try.

It rattles in the wood like a tooth in a gum,

a hollow, metallic, and repetitive drum.

I’ve been meaning to fix it for a month, maybe two,

but I’m better at letting the rot pull through.

I look at my shoes, the shine on the toe,

and the gray metal dust that has started to flow

from the heart of the spindle, a fine, leaden rain.

There’s no way to exit without feeling the strain.