The Ghost Combo

Trying to open a cheap, rusted lock,

on an old suitcase, stiff from years of dust.

My fingers fumbled, feeling out the stock

of numbers, grinding, full of ancient rust.

And then, a thought, a sudden, sharp recall,

'34-17-22,' so clear, so bright.

From somewhere deep, behind a dusty wall,

it surfaced, perfect, in the dim room's light.

My high school locker. All those years between,

the faces blurred, the hallways lost their gleam.

But that sequence, specific and so keen,

returned, a useless, undeniable dream.

A muscle memory, a phantom click.

Left, right, left. So fast, so cold, so quick.