Dead Weight

I've carried this key for three years,

kept it close like I had fears

that the storage unit would disappear,

that I'd need it. I held it dear.

Drove out yesterday to see

if the boxes were waiting for me.

The key slid into the lock—

that resistance, that moment before knock,

before the teeth would engage.

The manager checked his page

of records. Locks replaced in October, he said.

A year ago. I felt dead

weight in my chest. I've been

carrying something useless. I've been

locked out longer than I knew.

The boxes are still there. It's true—

I can't remember what I stored.

Some lamp. Some clothes. I'm bored

now by the mystery of it all.

The key is warm. The lock won't fall

open. It turns but nothing happens.

The key still fits. The moment slackens

into uselessness. I drive away.

The key stays with me anyway.