hinges

it's only the breeze
that swings the door
back and forth on its hinges,
creeking like they are sore

wounded from the movements
of not being stable
locking tightly to the frame
if only...it would enable

silence, no sounds of pain
rickity, like old rusty knees
settled, perched to rest steady
safe from the salt-water breeze

listening to the wailing
knowing wind, its where-how tinges
helpless but to lay and allow
the destruction of the hinges.