Doorstop

Moved into the new apartment.

Found it under the radiator—

a wooden wedge, dust-dark,

grain running through it

like a map of somewhere

that had already happened.

I don't know how long it had been there.

I don't know what door it held open.

The apartment has no doors

that need holding.

All the doors open and close

on their own now.

But I moved it to the shelf anyway.

Cleaned the dust off.

Set it down.

The dust outline remained,

a shadow of where it had been,

where it had waited

for a door that doesn't exist here.

I don't know why I kept it.

I don't know what I think it's for.

It sits in the afternoon light,

useful to nothing,

waiting to hold open

a door that might never come,

which is the saddest thing I know—

to be made for a purpose

and to end up somewhere else,

doing nothing,

patient,

still shaped

for a life

that isn't yours anymore.

I look at it sometimes

and I know exactly

how it feels.