The wind is picking up the grit

The wind is picking up the grit.

I’m out by the shed with a new lock,

my hands too cold to really work the metal.

But then my thumb just moves.

It’s 1998 for a second.

10. 32. 14.

The silver dial is biting into my palm.

I’m standing in the dirt

remembering a hallway that’s been painted

ten times since I left.

The turn is smooth. My body remembers

how to get into a place

that doesn’t exist anymore.

I forgot the code for my own front door last week.