The Catch

The paper bags were cutting into my palms

when the brass neck gave a pathetic lurch.

It’s been loose for months, one of those small qualms

you ignore like a crack in a pew at church.

The rose plate hangs by a single, stripped screw,

showing the raw, unpainted wood underneath.

It’s a hollow struggle to get the key through

when the hardware is rattling in its sheath.

I leaned my shoulder against the cold frame

and pulled until the clicking finally stopped.

Everything in this apartment feels the same—

held together by a thread that’s nearly popped.