Zero

I found it buried in the back of the drawer

under the batteries and the keys to the door.

A Master lock scuffed with a thousand small scars,

built like a vault for a set of steel bars.

I turn the dial and I wait for the feel

of the tumblers catching the weight of the wheel.

But the numbers are gone, just a blur in my head,

and the secret is something that’s better off dead.

I tug at the shackle and hear the dull click,

the sound of a memory playing a trick.

It smells like graphite and cold, heavy zinc,

a box I can’t open, no matter how much I think.