It was in the back of the closet shelf

It was in the back of the closet shelf,

behind the things I keep for when—

the padlock, closed on itself,

no tag, no note, no origin

I could locate. I brought it out

and held it in the light.

Turned the dial. The route

I know: right, left, right.

I tried the gym I used to go to.

I tried the year I know by heart.

The PIN I retired. The residue

of every number that had a part

in my life once—the birthday,

the combination I set in 2009

for something I can't name today,

the date I keep crossing a line

to avoid thinking about.

The shackle didn't give.

The weight of it, the doubt

of every number I still live

by, tested and returned.

Somebody knew this once—

wrote it down, or learned

it well enough, the months

of certainty before it went.

That person might be me.

I put it back. The document

I needed wasn't there. The key

isn't a key.

The dial still on the last

number I tried. The closet

still open. The past

still locked.