The Tumbler Pin

[Verse 1]
The deadbolt on a South End semi clicks its final time.
A new Master Lock key, still warm from the grind.
He runs a thumb on the oak door's grain,
a hundred years of weather, trying to explain.
She stands in the hall by the scuff on the baseboard,
wearing the silence she couldn't afford.

[Chorus]
All the right angles, and nobody home.
You get to keep the foundation, but you sleep on it alone.
The last little piece clicks into the groove.
It's the sound of the win that you had to approve.

[Verse 2]
It's the last Tuesday in August, the air is thick with salt.
She says, "You think this will hold?" and he can hear the fault
line in her voice, a hairline crack in the glaze.
He packs his tools in the half-light haze.
She paid him in cash, an extra twenty for the speed.
Planted like a fence post to witness the deed.

[Chorus]
All the right angles, and nobody home.
You get to keep the foundation, but you sleep on it alone.
The last little piece clicks into the groove.
It's the sound of the win that you had to approve.

[Bridge]
A pale rectangle on the wall where a picture used to live.
Some victories don't have anything left to give.

[Outro]
Just the tumbler pin,
dropping in.