The Lock

I've passed it a hundred times

and never stopped until today.

The old bicycle lock, lime-green with verdigris,

still clamped to the post

where a bike used to stay.

The chain hangs loose now,

rust-brittle,

holding absolutely nothing,

and I'm standing here

trying to understand

why it's still there,

why no one has cut it,

why no one has pried it loose,

why this small piece of green

still guards an absence.

The bike has been gone for years.

Maybe the owner moved.

Maybe they sold it.

Maybe they died.

I'll never know.

But the lock stayed,

patient and corroded,

waiting for a bike

that will never come back.

There's something honest about it—

this lock that protects nothing,

this vigilance that serves no purpose,

this green decay that says:

I was useful once.

I held something.

I kept something safe.

I mattered.

But now I'm just metal,

just verdigris,

just the memory

of what I was supposed to do.

And I'm standing here,

touching the rust,

and I understand it completely,

this lock that can't let go,

this thing that keeps holding

even though there's nothing

left to hold.