this lock on the door to the laundry which I turn
too often, washing my son’s sweet potato stained shirts,
and wish it was more than a tiny space
between the house and garage or die a little
knowing this load is far from last, though
it is a blessing, even this narrow corridor,
where a spider makes his webs in every corner,
even the keyhole, turning his tapestry of insides
into a trap that feeds future empires of silk spinners
I reload the dryer, close the door and turn the lock over,
its mechanism, an empire of entries and exits
that allow a home to carry on
folding my son’s tiny clothes,
I think of my own tiny empire- this house,
this tiny boy who’ll know so little of the lock’s work-
its inventor’s late nights, cold dinners, raw fingers,