The Spare

The move is finally down to the last three boxes,

the ones filled with things that survived the purge

by being too small to notice.

I found the Allen wrench today.

It’s L-shaped and rusted, an iron fossil

from a bookshelf we hauled to the curb

the year the towers fell.

It sat at the bottom of the kitchen drawer

under a heap of menus and dead batteries,

tangling with a knot of rubber bands

that have fused into a single, amber lung.

It’s a key to a door that doesn't exist anymore.

I should throw it out,

but my hand keeps closing around the cold metal,

remembering how certain we were

that everything we built would stay together.