The Ropes

It sounds like a wet towel hitting the floor,

or a sheet being snapped by a ghost in the yard.

I can hear it through every crack in the door

while the rain hits the driveway, rhythmic and hard.

The metal clips clatter against the blue pole,

a frantic, sharp ticking that won't let me sleep.

It’s a restless and hollowed-out kind of a toll

for a secret I wasn't quite ready to keep.

It’s just nylon and wind and a bit of bad luck,

but it sounds like a struggle, a fight in the dark.

Like something is caught, or something is stuck,

and is leaving a permanent, jagged-edged mark.