Storm Door

Open for the cross breeze
on merciful days, but locked
against the tract-bearers.
Wire and grime, the kids
have leaned into the screen
and torn away its edges.
It curls to admit the red
and paper wasps,
an exoskeletal tap
on the stuccoes. Pods
and keys root in the open
vein of the gutter, but we
can breathe the city-
layered air and still be a good
hook-and-eye away from hell.