The Shortening of the Nerve

Six months since I punched the silver clock

and left the warehouse standing in the weeds.

I used to know the turn of every lock

and exactly what the heavy engine needs.

But tonight I tried to recall the gate

and the four-digit code I used to know.

The numbers are a blank and heavy slate,

lost in the places where I used to go.

The steel-toed boots are resting in the hall,

gathering a fine and velvet layer of grey.

The world didn't actually end at all

the moment that I chose to walk away.