Zero, Zero, Zero

It was at the bottom of the junk drawer,

tangled in a nest of dead chargers

and keys to doors I don't live behind anymore.

The steel is cold.

I turned the dial just to hear the clicks,

hoping my fingers would remember

the rhythm of a locker room in 2004.

But the 15 and the 20 are just scratches now,

ghosts of a sequence I’ve let go.

It’s just a paperweight today,

a hunk of chrome that won't let go

of whatever it was told to hold.