Poem: “Key”
April 23: 30 days of new poems for National Poetry Month
Published in
Apr 23, 2024
Key
Duplex. Two doors. For the sake of equilibrium,
we rented the one less traveled by. This put us
upstairs, and so we wore socks for a year. My
favorite writer used to ride his bike through
that neighborhood, so I did, too. It was
the greatest kitchen we ever had, but we only
ever made one friend and only had him over
for dinner once. He brought Spanish wine.
One winter there finished us. My old age would
not be spent ice fishing in a shanty. We left
the key under the mat, and then it wasn’t our
door anymore. Did a baby ever live there after
we left, I wonder? It could be as old as 21 now —
old enough for friendship. For Spanish wine.
