Lost Numbers

The shed air, thick with old oil,

and the smell of rot. I find the box.

Its handle cold, a rusted coil.

And there, the brass, the stubborn locks.

I turn the dial, remember nothing.

A small, dull glint. It doesn't move.

Three circles, then the click, or something.

A combination I can't prove.

It holds a few old tools, no doubt.

But what it really holds inside

is the silence of going without,

the numbers having somewhere died.

The padlock sits, a solid thing,

a tiny fort, holding its breath.

A small, quiet, useless king,

guarded by an absent death.