Unmatched Teeth

Cleaning the junk drawer, again.

Another Saturday night.

Found it, heavy brass, cold in my palm.

A key. Or what used to be.

Its teeth sharp, distinct ridges,

but I don't know the lock.

Not anymore, not for years.

It could be an old apartment.

A forgotten storage unit. Maybe

the padlock from a high school diary

I threw out a decade ago.

It’s just metal, now. A little weight.

A small, useless reminder

of doors that clicked shut,

or never opened at all.