Fixed

It’s been six years of cold storage.

The dial has a grainy resistance,

grinding against the grease inside.

I try the old house number,

the month my father left,

the four digits of a first phone.

Nothing gives.

The grey shackle just bites the steel,

holding onto a box of rusted bits

and a socket set I don’t even own anymore.

My fingers remember the spin,

the rhythmic click-clack of the tumblers,

but the sequence has gone flat.

It’s a permanent part of the box now,

a heavy, silent knot

I’m no longer allowed to untie.