All the Keys

This treatise begins apologetically,
In the case I might step on some toes,
We all have our idiosyncracies,
But of others we turn up our nose.


I knew of a person who locked
The house front and back,
With every window secured,
And the dog even locked in his yard out back.

Every lock in the house had a key:
The cedar chest, the file cabinets,
A very secret diary, and medicine from vets.
Later people pills were protected from pilfrey,
And the outdoor fuse box gained a second lock,
Always a Master with a key. No combinations.
The cars were locked, the garage door bolted,
And a long strong stick lived nights in the glass patio door,
Below eye level it floated, a second door lock secured.

As this person became older, the need for locks grew,
I never knew if they were for keeping in, or keeping life in tow.
The drawer
Which had held a few small boxes containing organized keys
In the early days, grew,
Expanded,
Perhaps exponentially.
Overwhelming adjacent drawers
With silver, and bronze,
And other keys that looked of gold,
Or as if what they might open would prove golden.


The key Master spoke last on a Tuesday,
Not speaking of keys, or much of anything,
As the voice was as frail as a plastic roller skate key.
On Wednesday, the eyes no longer sought sight,
Seeking instead a solace in regular breath.
In another day, breath passed,
As did my Mother that hot June afternoon.

I, the only child, inherited
All the keys.
Unfortunately,
Their purpose has gone,
Long gone.