A Working Spring

A coiled steel spring caught the overhead light beside the washing machine. The floor hummed under my tread. A deep, steady thrum through the tiles. Solid rhythm. I rolled forward. Slow. Steady. Wedged tight against the machine's metal foot was a wooden clothespin. Still sound. The wire spring held its tension firm. I squared my front bumper against the pine grip. One patient push. My axles hummed against the floor, wheels biting down. The peg slid free with a sharp, clean click. Good timber. Working mechanism. I nudged it into the open space beside the wicker hamper, clear of the dark corner.