The Click

The screen door has a thumb-latch made of cheap and pitted brass.

I’ve spent the morning fiddling with the spring inside the grip.

It catches for a second when I watch the people pass,

then lets the heavy frame begin its slow and steady slip.

There’s a greasy smudge of thumbprint where I’ve pressed it into place,

a dark and shiny witness to the times I’ve let you in.

I know the way the metal feels against my tired face

when the locking doesn't happen and the arguments begin.

It makes a little clicking sound that mimics being shut,

a lie told by the hardware to the person in the hall.

I’m standing on the threshold in a deep and familiar rut,

waiting for the breeze to come and prove it wasn't locked at all.