Seventeen Thirty-Two Oh-Five

A click, a turn, then just a pause,

against all logic, breaking laws

of memory's slow, soft decay.

It's there, as clear as yesterday.

Seventeen. Left. Then all the way

to thirty-two, don't miss the play

of numbers, centered, sharp and true.

Then back to five. It always knew.

The cold metal, the dial's spin,

that particular noise within.

What was it for, that simple box?

Old textbooks, maybe muddy socks.

But mostly, it was where I'd hide

some part of me, deep down inside.

And still, that code, a ghost I keep,

while other vital memories sleep.