The Sealant

The wind found the gap near the floor,

a thin, whistling throat in the wood.

I pulled the rusted trigger of the gun

until the white paste spilled over the side,

thick and clumsy as a secret.

It wouldn't stay in the crack.

It smeared against the baseboard,

clinging to the grain of the oak

instead of the empty space behind it.

I tried to smooth the bead with a thumb,

leaving a gummy ridge, a permanent print

hardened into a dull, rubbery moon.

I am still trying to keep the outside

from becoming the inside.