Four Blind Wheels

The old key, a silver tooth,

on my ring, still holds its truth.

It fits the lock, a click, a sound,

but freedom is not to be found.

Four small wheels, all black and blind,

the numbers lost, left behind.

I spin them, one by one,

a guessing game, forever undone.

The metal cold against my thumb,

a silent, stubborn, stupid drum.

What was it? The year you left?

Or just a random, quick, deft

turn of mind, now out of reach?

A memory beyond my speech.