A Tool for a Different House

The silver key felt right in my palm,

a heavy piece of home I’d kept for years.

I slid it into the lock by the porch light,

waiting for the familiar slide of the bolt.

But the cylinder didn't move an inch.

Instead, a sharp vibration rattled up my wrist,

a hard 'no' from a door that used to know me.

The teeth are worn down, smoothed by the friction

of a thousand mornings I can't get back.

It’s just a scrap of brass now, a useless jagged edge

that belongs to a room with different curtains.

I’m standing on the mat like a stranger,

holding the evidence of a place I no longer own.