I hold a cluster of keys in hand, a cluster bound then
forgotten by necessity’s lack. Every key I try in door
fails to turn the dial ope, and so I stand as keymaster
without doors to close, a treasurer without treasure.
What would this little key’s teeth access with ease?
Would it open bathroom in time of need? Would it
whole house give onto myself, or open mere padlock
and let slip heavy chain guarding open barren field?
What of this heavy key, as long as my hand: it speaks
of home’s threshold or hearth’s precious asylum.
Does it stand guard against the world, or does it
bind another in a house that is not home or holy place?
Does this flat key open hidden cache in bank filled
with family jewels? Does this stubby one serve any
purpose save to open mailbox lid? Are the things they ope
still around for the test, or long demolished as obsolete?
If I would be rich, I would need not a single one of these:
every door would ope to me with a smile from servant.
I would be the master, and my touch would be the key,
my voice would fling the oaken door wide, open sesame.
But these keys are as strange coin, useless and rejected
by every door I need to open. Yet I think of the day
when memory could again make one of them the object
of my interest, and when I turn it, to knob turns with it
and reveals unobstructed portal.