Teeth

I reached into the pocket of the heavy wool coat

and my fingers hit something cold.

A square-headed brass key,

the kind for a deadbolt in a door

I haven't stood in front of since the move.

It’s heavy in my palm.

The ridges are sharp, little brass teeth

that used to bite into the tumblers just right.

Now it’s just scrap metal,

a jagged piece of a lock that’s been changed,

keeping me out of a room that doesn't exist anymore.