Wedge

I’m tired of the way the air moves through,

a thin, hungry whistle under the frame.

It smells like the street and the neighbor’s stew

and things I no longer have the heart to name.

I kicked the rubber wedge into the gap,

watching it bite the grain of the wood.

It stopped the rattle, the sudden snap,

and held the boundary as best as it could.

There are scuffs on the floor where it’s dug its heel,

black streaks from a fight with a heavy oak door.

It’s a small, blunt piece of a hardening feel

that says nothing is coming inside anymore.