Just a Block

Stumbled again, in the dim light

that cast-iron cat, forever asleep

against the doorframe, a dull, familiar weight.

Its chipped paint, a dark brown

where it used to be black.

Been here years, just holding things open,

or shut, depending on how you look at it.

Or just in the way, a permanent fixture

I forget to navigate, until the bone in my foot

finds its solid, unyielding side.

A small pain, a jolt.

And I'm still here, too.

Not moving, just held in place by what's small

and heavy and hasn't shifted

since I can remember.