The mesh is sagging in the lower right

The mesh is sagging in the lower right,

a silver pocket where the dust collects.

It lets in the moths and the humid light

and every small thing that the house rejects.

I sat on the porch while the sun went down

and watched a bug beat its wings to grey.

It’s the only sound in this part of town

beside the wind blowing the heat away.

Then the spring gave up and the wood went slam,

a hollow thud that shook the frame.

I’m still sitting here, just the way I am,

with nothing but a hole to call my name.