Rusty Bolt Battle

I spent far too much of my afternoon today
Battling a rusted bolt
on a toilet seat anchor
A three inch long Russian Army in winter, refusing to budge.
Knuckles bleeding, ego bruised and cursing the inventor of threaded metal
I like my home improvement projects to be like high school dates that end in the
back seat of your dad’s car.
A little initial resistance, but then both parties give in to the thrill of the exploration.
But this bolt was the bitter 40-year-old divorcee.
Who took me to court and sicced the bulldog lawyer on me.
The really mean one with the loud commercials about being the SOB who will get you all the money you deserve.
As afternoon dragged in to evening,
Bent over in a position usually reserved for physical sickness
I searched my toolbox for a friendly judge
who could offer some hope of mediation.