He’s a castiron dog with a chip on his ear

He’s a cast-iron dog with a chip on his ear,

wedged tight against the kitchen door.

I tripped on his back and felt a sudden fear

that he’s grown himself right into the floor.

There’s a groove in the linoleum, a permanent dent

where the weight of the metal has pressed for a decade.

I tried to kick him loose, to hide the scent

of the sink full of dishes and the mess I’ve made.

But the door won't budge. It’s held in place

by the heavy, cold pressure of staying exactly here.

I stared at the dog’s flat, painted face

and the way he hasn't blinked in a single year.

It’s a terrible thing to be useful and stuck,

propping open a room that you’d rather keep closed.

Just a piece of dead hardware with no kind of luck,

with your one broken ear forever exposed.