The Grip

The basement air is thick and slow.

The dryer quit an hour ago.

I reached into the canvas sack

and felt a splinter in the black.

The wood is grey and soft as bone.

It’s spent a long time here alone.

The spring is orange with the rust.

The hinge is filled with silver dust.

It clamped the collar of the shirt

to keep the cotton from the dirt.

The tiny spider stayed inside.

It had no other place to hide.