The Swell

The rain came down so hard the window frame

actually groaned in its skin.

I’m already late, shouting my own name

at the wall where the wood gave in.

The drawer is stuck on a crooked track,

and when I yanked, the handle just quit.

It’s a heavy piece of brass, holding me back,

while I’m trying to find where the pieces fit.

I look down at my socks, the only clean pair,

and they’re covered in fine yellow dust.

Shavings of pine everywhere

like a sudden, dry layer of rust.