Entry Requirements

I was halfway out and late for the bus

when the brass handle gave a sickly tilt.

It’s a small and metallic kind of fuss,

a physical rattling of accumulated guilt.

The screw hit the floor with a tiny chime

and the finish peeled off in a flake of gold.

I’ve been meaning to fix this for a long time

before the whole house started getting old.

Now I’m standing here with the door half-shut,

holding the hardware like a broken bone.

I’ve got the keys and I’ve got the gut,

but I’m staying inside and staying alone.