keys

the keys tumble

from my pocket, a clanging mess

of twined metal and shapes

that make no sense.

 

I fumble with them

in the dark, sensing

with my fingertips the right ones

 

to unlock the house, the car, the garage door

 

I pray quietly not to drop them on the floor

 

lose my place, pry the somehow

now interlocked shapes 

back into something reasonable

 

(you say that there are too too many;

they lay cold and strangely shaped

in my pocket. I should cull and separate.

You don't understand keys)

 

the keys are complicated,

each one a mystery

memorized once, now

some are forgotten. I

fear losing even one

 

I might not find my way

back to it again.

 

I might forsake

the mystery key just before

the moment comes that

I need it most. 

 

(you tell me nonsense. the unused

key is that way for a reason, the

locks long gone, the doors left

far behind)

 

often now I ask myself

whether the doors and locks and

mysteries are even worth the nuisance.

 

why fumble and grovel on the ground

to find the key that fits anymore?

there are more keys than

I know what to do with.

 

(More questions than I care

to mull. The pads of my fingers

grow old and numb.)

 

The beating of my heart arcs

to a stillness no keys will open

 

(you are a young man, you say.

you sell yourself too short.

will you put your clothes away?)