Doorhinges

She had an aptitude for persnickety doorhinges
and leftover sandwiches sitting on tables next to vitamins and capsules
with a glass of stale milk and empty thoughts.
Half empty, she measured her life in lovesick teaspoons, awaiting the day when a greater reality
would slog her hard in her face,
mussing up her mascara and blush,
the manifest of a farther away windowsill.
Flower pots and a watering can and tea and biscuits,
she could only stand so much in this world of chained parking tickets
and purpling green bruises on her cheeks,
where the fear of nothing greater could kiss her
and leave her empty and drying out in the sun
glued to a windowsill
she could never leave
despite the doorhinges.