Muscle Memory

The keypad waits for a four-digit code

to let me into a life I’m trying to build.

But the ghost of an old, forgotten road

keeps my fingers occupied and skilled.

Two turns right, a full circle past the ten,

then landing on the four like a heavy weight.

I can feel the cold steel in my palm again,

the click of the shackle deciding my fate.

I haven't been that kid in fifteen years,

the one who hid his lunch and his shaking fear.

But the numbers are louder than all the gears

that have ground me down to the person here.