It’s that key

Surrounded by

So many others.

Others that have lost sight of their particular lock,

Others that look like they were

Chewed up and spit out.

But still hanging on,

Clinging to

(Life)

And

That crowded key ring,

Just in case.

This is that certain key,

Already plenty bent,

 Bending slightly more

With the arrival of every new day,

(But not quite a skeleton key, just yet)

Whose purpose is everything.

Yet it is reserved for nothing.

Every night the key spends

Hanging from

A hook

Under  a basket,

Aptly titled

“Lost and found”

 Conversating with expired coupons

And

Observing the

Light & dust

That trickles in

After being funneled through the

Narrow ,

Hollow

Keyhole.

It turns in the same manner and motion

As the water

Flushed in the toilet,

And unlocks in a manner simular to a black hole,

(Simultaneously releasing & exploding)

Partisans and particles alike.

It is the only other

Constant,

(Aside from the belt buckle and occasional pocket knife)

That knows what  the strength of x-rays feel like.

The key is aware of the magnitude of magnets.

And

Sometimes it lays dormant,

Under the

Door-mat

Providing necessary entry for attentive neighbors,

(Who’s  only alternative would be burglary)

If not for the courtesy of the key,

Whilst the owners

Vacant

Home,

Takes a vacation of its own.

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