Non-Functional

My sister called to talk about the price of the chairs,

and the boxes of clothes that are sitting on the stairs.

I ducked into the kitchen to escape the phone’s ring,

and found a heavy, black, cast-iron thing.

It’s a radiator key from a life we don’t lead,

a tool for a hunger we no longer need.

The iron is cold and it leaves a dark stain,

an oily, gray smudge like a shadow of pain.

It sat in the drawer for twenty long years,

ignored by the laughter and missed by the tears.

I wiped my thumb on the side of my jeans

and wondered what keeping a dead object means.