It’s that key
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,
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
Under a basket,
“Lost and found”
Conversating with expired coupons
Light & dust
That trickles in
After being funneled through the
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
(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.
Sometimes it lays dormant,
Providing necessary entry for attentive neighbors,
(Who’s only alternative would be burglary)
If not for the courtesy of the key,
Whilst the owners
Takes a vacation of its own.