Fixed Point

The book, spine broken,

a paper brick under the bathroom door,

kept it from swinging shut.

A cheap thriller, dog-eared,

now warped by damp tile.

Its pages flared,

a small, white protest

against the cold air it held back,

or let in.

It didn't care about the plot

or the author's careful words.

Just held its ground,

a minor inconvenience

turned solid.

It sat there, mute,

a stand-in for silence,

a temporary fixture

in a rented life.