Combination Lock

Under the boxes, in a gym bag,

it sat, this silver little snag.

A padlock on the zipper, tight,

a cold and tiny, rusted bite.

The numbers, frozen, little drums,

refused to spin, refused to hum.

I tried a date, a birth year, two,

some number game we used to do.

But no, it held its secret fast,

a stubborn memory from the past.

It mocked me, silent, unyielding, grim,

a small metallic, coded whim.

What's inside? I can't recall.

Just a lock, and nothing at all.