It won't move It’s holding my life

It won't move. It’s holding my life

inside a box of swollen, cheap pine.

I pulled like I was holding a knife,

trying to make the morning mine.

Then the silver handle just gave

with a snap like a frozen twig.

Now I'm a hostage, or maybe a slave

to a piece of junk that’s too big.

The handle is on the rug, a cold ear

listening to me curse and sweat.

I’m going to be late, that’s clear.

I haven't even started yet.