RUST SQUEALS
Like an old couple holding hands
the gate and latch defend
the yard year after year
until rust squeals hinges.
The gate wobbles and topples
as its grip loosens on the latch,
and weeds wind tendrils
like prisoners’ fingers
through wire fencing
and ignores the outstretched palm
of the empty latch.
Season after season the gate
buries under dust to dust
rust to rust; a skeleton
of wire flakes decay
like dates on a calendar
marked off with an X.