Right, Left, Right

The office keypad wants a four-digit code

to prove that I’m allowed to be inside.

I stand there in the hall, feeling the load

of twenty years I’ve tried so hard to hide.

At the bus stop, a kid was fighting a lock,

that heavy silver dial, the Master brand.

I felt my own wrist twitch, a sudden shock,

the weight of the steel sitting in my hand.

Eighteen, twenty-two, and then back to zero.

I haven't seen that hallway since the spring

of 2004. I wasn't anyone's hero,

but I still remember the click of the thing.

The metal was cold and the notches were deep.

It’s a useless ghost, a rhythm I keep.