The Weight of the Hardware

I was looking for the key to the back porch lock

when I found a small box near an old, broken clock.

It was filled with the pulls from a kitchen we had,

back when the air didn't feel quite this sad.

The brass is all tarnished, a dull, oily brown,

from the years that it spent in a box underground.

One hinge has a screw that is stripped in the hole,

like a stubborn old secret or a leak in the soul.

My fingers still smell like a handful of change,

of a metal that’s heavy and bitter and strange.

I put them back down and I shut the lid tight,

leaving the hardware alone in the night.