The hardware store floor was grit and oil

The hardware store floor was grit and oil.

I bought a new lock for the garden shed,

the steel heavy and cold in my pocket.

When I got home, I didn't have to think.

My thumb found the ridges of the dial

and spun them like it was 1998.

Right to twenty-four.

Left past zero to ten.

Right to thirty-eight.

The shackle clicked open in my hand,

answering a call from a hallway

that was torn down a decade ago.

The chrome bit into my skin,

a cold reminder of a boy I don't talk to anymore.