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,

the carrying on, turning over of self.