Structural Support

The host sets a brass wedge against the oak,

a heavy, silent bit of hardware intended

to keep the draft from making a joke

of the evening. The door stays extended.

I remember the kitchen back home, the heat

trapped in the linoleum, the constant draft.

We had three telephone books, yellow and sweet

with the smell of old glue. My father had laughed

as he bound them in duct tape, a silver spine

to prop open the world. I thought every hall

required a stack of names, a paper shrine

to keep the swinging wood from hitting the wall.