Wrong Combination

I found it in the junk drawer

while I was hunting for a double-A.

Padlock. Shackle still closed.

No idea what to say

to myself about where it came from—

no shed, no gym, no storage bin.

Just a lock I must have used

for something I believed in

at the time. I've been at the table

forty minutes, trying combinations:

the year of this, the street of that,

old addresses, graduations,

whatever I would have used.

I almost had it once—

felt something soften in the dial—

then lost it. That's the blunt

fact of it. Put it down.

Picked it back up. Put it down.

The menu next to it is for

a place that's not around

anymore. The light's too bright.

The shackle hasn't moved.