Brittle

It’s been sitting on the porch

since the landlord stopped caring.

The weave is a dry, gray skin

unraveling in the heat.

I tried to move it to the curb

but it caught me on the thumb,

a needle of old wood

sliding under the nail.

It’s a jagged little piece

of a house that’s falling down,

reminding me that even junk

has a way of fighting back.