Four Times

I’m twenty minutes late for the clock-in

but I’m back at the front door again.

The gravel is crunching under my boots

like I’m paying for some kind of sin.

I grab the brass knob and give it a twist,

squeezing until my palm turns white.

The lock is solid, I know it is set,

but I have to be sure it’s tight.

I let go and walk halfway to the car

then turn around to check the frame.

My hand is shaking, the skin is dented,

and I can't even remember my name.