The humidity has fat fingers

The humidity has fat fingers.

It’s been holding the sash shut

since the first rain of October.

I took the block of canning wax,

hard and colorless as a tooth,

and dragged it through the grit.

A white, greasy streak

left on the wood like a scar.

I lean my weight into the frame,

waiting for the sudden,

slick surrender

of the glass.