No one remembers the little hinge
that sits upon a door
carrying the olympian weight
like Atlas’ iron shoulders.
Except of course, when we
creek and squeak
and break out of the rotting wood.
Then they miss us.
But even that is taciturn,
groveling in the creeking,
and the labor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem