Assorted

I dumped the plastic tray onto the rug

looking for the flathead, the one with the yellow grip.

Instead, a nine-volt battery rolled out,

heavy and dead, from a toy for a dog

that’s been under the oak tree for three winters.

There is a single, rusted key in the pile.

It doesn't fit the front door or the shed

or the padlock I lost the summer I turned twenty.

I keep it because throwing it away

feels like admitting I’ll never go back

to whatever room it was meant to open.