The glass is heavy against my palm

The glass is heavy against my palm.

I am the human hinge, the living gap

between the lobby’s stale and heated calm

and the wet street snapping like a trap.

The delivery guy is fumbling with a crate,

stacking plastic tubs of wilted chard.

I’m the only reason he isn't late,

holding back the door, though it’s getting hard

to keep my grip. The brass bar is slick

with the sweat of my hand and the evening’s mist.

The cold air licks my ankles, sharp and quick,

while the weight of the building pulls at my wrist.