Case Sensitive

The email said they’re turning it off,

closing the room where I used to live

when the world felt smaller.

A string of letters and a dog’s name,

ending in nineteen-ninety-four.

My fingers still know the beat of it,

a hollow percussion on the plastic keys

that doesn’t open anything anymore.

It’s a ghost-key to a house

they tore down a decade ago.

I can’t remember my own tax ID

but I can tell you the exact sequence

of symbols that meant I was home

at two in the morning

when the screen was the only light.