The Broken Hinged Door
By Zoe Pierson
It’s seen the good, the battered,
the blessings, and scorn.
The late nights of sneaking out,
the arrivals of long gone people,
the past, the present,
Hinges oiled years ago still squeak,
telling on me quicker than my sister.
The screen that’s withering
the glass stays shivering
the bugs, the webs,
In my eyes for 18 years,
but in the house for many more.
The slams of angry arguments,
the locks against intruders,
the mom, the dad,
Moving out and on my way,
I give it a good look; that weathered fleeting piece.
Maybe that day, it had had enough
because when I closed it, gently now
the boom, the crash,