No Lock

Brass key. No label.

Thirty years in the junk drawer

beside dead batteries and tape

with no stick left.

Nobody tried a door.

Nobody asked. It just stayed

the way certain things stay—

beneath notice, between usefulness

and trash.

House sold. I fished it from the bag,

held it warm in my fist.

Fits nothing. Opens nothing.

Dad said keep it. Mom said toss it.

I put it in my pocket.

Not because it matters.

Because I'm the kind of person

who keeps what doesn't.