Entry

The screen asked for a new set of digits,

something secure, something I wouldn't lose.

Before I could think, my hand did the work,

typing out the name of a black dog

who died in the heat of twelve summers ago.

I added the number of the house on 4th Street,

the one with the mold in the basement

and the locks they changed while I was at work.

My middle finger still hits the 7 key

with a little more force than the others.

It’s a rhythm for a door that won’t open,

a ghost code for a room that isn't there.