Slow cellar door

Papa was determined to fix the hinges.
Grandma made the sign to ward off the evil eye
with a flick of her fingers and a hard little hiss.

It’d been sticking for two days,
and who knew what trouble had been sucked in.
On the swing shut, it wouldn’t close right,
a long gap remained that was just an invitation to trouble.

It was the ghosts that looked for a slow cellar door,
for a house kept careless,
with good stores to spoil.

I secretly hoped they’d come.
No matter if he fixed it,
a few tiny stones,
and I’d invite them back in.