Nobody Announced It

The key was on the counter when I got home,

sitting on the scratch it made itself—

two years of the same small landing. I stood alone

with it for a while. Didn't put it on the shelf.

Didn't do anything. Just touched it.

I wasn't there when they left. That's the part

I can't revise. The door closed at three

on a Tuesday while I was underground, apart

from all of it, and whatever the key

had to say, it said it to an empty hall.

The apartment has a different sound at night.

My footsteps come back faster from the wall.

I keep the hallway light off—not quite

sure why—and the refrigerator's call

is louder now. Specific. Unanswered.

The key is still there on the counter.

I keep thinking I'll know what to do with it.