The Numbers That Stayed

My fingers found the cold, hard metal.

Not the new one, not the simple catch.

It was the old dance, the childhood mettle

of memory, the click of the latch.

Left to twenty-eight, a small breath held,

then right past zero, back to twelve,

then left again, on thirty-seven, spelled

out in the rust. I almost helped

that old thing open, heard the grind.

The rusty shackle, stuck, refused to budge.

Another combination in my mind,

a useless code, still bearing a grudge

against time, maybe. A phantom grip.

I don't need it. I never will again.

But the numbers rise, a silent, useless slip.

Like counting sheep, or remembering pain.