What Holds Things Open

The rubber's crumbling in my hand,

bits of it falling where I stand,

faded from some brighter day,

but I can't remember it anyway.

One side's flattened from the weight

of years of holding the door's fate,

compressed smooth by the frame

that pushed against it, again and again, the same.

It's fragile now, and that's the thing—

a doorstop shouldn't cringe or sing

when you touch it. It should be strong,

but this one's been holding on too long.

I picked it up while moving around,

felt the weight (or lack) that I found,

hollow in my palm, so light,

the rubber cracked, no longer tight.

I could replace it, get something new,

bright colored, ready, fresh in hue,

unmarked and strong and clean,

the best that I've ever seen.

But I put it back where it stays,

where it's been for all these days,

where it holds the door open, bare,

where it's still holding, still there.

Even broken, it holds the door.

Even fragile, it does the chore,

even tired, even worn,

still holding, still keeping, still sworn.