an old tea kettle

bottom rusted through

sits propped on spout and shoulder

a vision of civility

kicked into the dystopian wasteland

thick-walled tomb

a slapping hand, numb and beet red

all sound absorbed

nothing passes

but a tremor

knocking loose a grain of sand

one sand grain for all the frantic panic

for all the screaming, kicking, and pounding

a grain of sand no one will miss

it’ll hit the earth without a shock wave

it’ll tumble into a pile of its kind, becoming indistinguishable

it’ll happen in the space between heartbeats

all that frenetic energy eaten by stone

the sum of a human life force in its final throes

muted by a tomb

The door:

rusty hinges

weathered wood

rhomboidal sag

The lock:

clunky brass

formidable

sturdy, shiny, and

out-of-place

Who puts such a sterling lock

on such a pathetic door?

Who could be blamed

for lifting the lock

to feel its heft?

But when the slightest touch

tore the rusty, pointy wood screws

out of the door frame’s rotten wood,

it felt like a burglary in process.

But what could be worth burgling

behind such a sad, worn door?

The only thing worth thieving was the lock,

but it had a rusty hasp & staple dangling from it.

And a lock without a key is a paperweight.

One needn’t turn to a life of crime for a paperweight.

For the defining characteristic of a

paperweight

is that it be able to sit in place

and not go wandering about.

Anything but a cat can be a paperweight.

The door creaked when I looked inside.

I had to look inside.

Who wouldn’t look inside

to see what was worth guarding

with a big brass lock?

Inside: pure darkness.

Except the back wall,

where light strained through

cracks & slats.

I took two steps into the inky murk,

and plummeted down my own personal rabbit hole.