Holding Fast

That black wedge, scarred and hard,

keeps the server room door ajar.

My shin still throbs, a stupid scar,

from where my foot caught.

It holds a gap, a space unclosed,

against the slam, a stubborn thing.

Rubber pressed to concrete, composed,

a silent, unmoving king.

It lets the hum leak out, a drone

from wires and fans, a low complaint.

Stops the world from being known

as something whole, a pure restraint.

Just holds it open, takes the stress,

a small, unyielding, brutal truth.

No give, no comfort, nothing less

than keeping back what it keeps loose.