What Doesn't Hold

I wedged it open to let the air in,

the rubber stopper dark and small,

just a thing, just a way to begin

something small. I walked down the hall

thinking air would fix it,

that breath would come back to the room.

I came back to find it

had failed. The door shut. Gloom

creeping back. The doorstop

lay on the linoleum like something

I'd dropped by accident. Can't stop

the door from closing. Can't ring

it open from where I stand.

The shadow it casts is so small

I almost don't see it. Understand

this: nothing we use ever holds.