A Matter of Friction

It’s eleven at night and I’m holding a handle

that isn’t attached to the drawer anymore.

I just wanted a fork. I’m a bit of a scandal,

standing barefoot and stunned on the linoleum floor.

For three years I’ve known how to jiggle the grain,

how to lift at the corner to make the wood slide.

But I pulled way too hard in a moment of strain

and the tracks gave way to the rot deep inside.

The splintered, unfinished wood of the track

is exposed like a nerve or a secret I’ve kept.

I can’t glue the pieces or put the thing back.

I should have just sanded it down while I slept,

or while I was waking. Instead, I just waited

until the friction became something I couldn't beat.

Now the drawer is jammed, and my cereal’s fated

to go soggy while I stare at my cold, dusty feet.