Keys
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment