Dial Tone

I found the Master Lock under a pile of tangled wire,

hidden in a drawer I haven't cleared since the move.

The steel is cold, a heavy, silent liar,

waiting for a thumb to find the familiar groove.

My hand didn't ask the brain for the secret key.

It just turned right to twenty-four, then left past zero.

A physical stutter, a twitch of what used to be,

back when a hallway felt like a room for a hero.

Eleven, then thirty-six, and the shackle gave way.

Twelve years of rust didn't matter to the spring.

It’s frightening how the muscles choose to stay

clinging to a number that doesn't mean a thing.