Surplus

The drawer is full of batteries and twine,

of dried-up pens and receipts for the wine.

I dig beneath a roll of masking tape

to find a ghost of a familiar shape.

The warehouse key is heavy, cold, and brass,

a relic of the time I let it pass.

The silver teeth are worn down at the tip,

from every morning I let the lock slip.

I quit that floor and left the dust behind,

but keeping this was some trick of the mind.

A jagged piece of metal in the palm,

the only part of leaving that stayed calm.