The Passive Hold

It sits there, same place,

this wedge of faded black.

It holds the kitchen door,

propped open, never shut,

a passive, steady block.

Scuff marks gather round its base,

a history of movement,

or lack of it, I guess.

It keeps the draft from creeping,

keeps the room from being sealed.

It’s just a thing,

doing its job.

But watching it, I feel

the same old pressure,

holding me right here.