Quiet Wedge Undone

A door swings slow,

paint chips fluttering like tired flags.

The rubber wedge lies forgotten,

cracked and dusty on cold tiles.

A breeze nudges it loose,

and the door falls shut

with a hollow thud —

a final note in an empty hall.

I freeze, caught by the sound,

a small closing that feels too big.

The wedge, useless now,

a silent witness to endings

that slip in without warning,

quiet as a forgotten thing.