Muscle Memory

The cursor blinks, a rhythmic green demand,

waiting for a key that no longer fits the lock.

I stare at the oily sheen of my fingerprints

smeared across the keyboard’s backlight,

a map of everywhere I haven’t been lately.

My left pinky twitches toward the 'shift',

my right index knows the exact weight

of the vowel that used to get me inside.

It’s a string of characters for a ghost ship,

a server farm turned into a parking lot.

I’m typing into a void that can’t even say 'no'.

I still hold the combination to a safe

that was melted down five years ago,

while the tax forms stay buried under the dirt

of a bankrupt company’s hard drive.