The knob on the back door

The knob on the back door

wobbles in its socket.

I go to the drawer by the fridge

where the metal things live.

I move a pack of birthday candles,

the wicks matted with gray lint,

and a key that feels heavy

but doesn't turn a single lock I own.

At the bottom, a nest of rubber bands.

They have turned the color of old skin.

When I touch them,

they don't stretch;

they just snap into dry, salt-colored bits,

tired of holding nothing together.