Dead Weight

The drawer finally choked on itself, a cough

of loose screws and expired coupons for bread.

I pulled until the wooden tracks gave off

a groan, spilling twenty years of the unsaid.

Among the dried-out pens and tangled wire,

I found a heavy key of solid brass.

It wore a Motel 6 tag like a flyer

for a room in a town he used to pass

but never stop in. The metal felt cold,

coated in a rubber band's melted, black tar.

It’s a secret he thought was buried and old,

sticky and jagged, like the door to a scar.