We never escape the war
with the things we think we own.
As soon as you make peace 
with the temperamental engine, 
you will no doubt discover
sabotage stirring fresh 
in a tiny plastic button
you once considered innocent.
 
The sole red sock 
lying lonely in the dryer
will forever mock your awe
as his brother tumbles down 
some underground railroad
nobody will ever discover.
 
The crooked hanging frames
will shake with silent laughter 
as the pearl-white carpet catches 
a fallen plate of spaghetti 
and another helpless sigh.
 
Every day a brand new battle:
stubborn screws and tangled cords,
loose knobs and shrunken shirts,
the corner that nicks your shin,
and the couch that steals your keys.
 
But once in a while, a ceasefire settles,
a brass lamp’s light falls tender
and a pillow holds your neck
as you settle into the evening
with a old, familiar book
that falls open right to your page.

—First appeared in SNReview (Volume 16, Number 1, Summer 2014); republished here by author’s permission.

Bio: Dan Leach