The Wedge

It’s a heavy rubber tooth bitten down on the floor,

holding back the weight of the pantry door.

I kicked it by accident while moving a box,

and felt the dull thud in the heels of my socks.

There’s a black scuff mark now on the bottom rail,

a permanent bruise where the white paint is frail.

I pulled the wedge out and looked at the grime,

the dust bunnies caught in the gears of time.

It’s been doing the work of a silent, stiff hand,

staying exactly where I told it to stand.

Now the door swings shut with a hollow, soft click,

leaving me alone with the dark and the thick.