Numbers That Linger

Dust motes dance like tiny ghosts

in a shaft of attic sun,

locker cold under my hands—

metal grumbles, old but stubborn.

Three turns right, then left, right again—

fingers remember what the mind forgets,

rust creeping into the hinge, yet

those numbers click in like a whispered bet.

Years turned locks and shut away

smells of sweat, old paper, and whispered plans,

that rattle of a handle, a heartbeat stilled,

numbers clinging stubborn, as if time could not erase.