You said I was getting just like your Dad.
By the time he died his pockets bulged,
were weighed down with them;
you could hear their jangle, all shapes and sizes.
No wonder he needed a belt.
None - as far as you knew - fitted anywhere.
But, I countered, they could have.
In the teeth of every blade an answer
to the unsolved puzzle of a lock.
Each might reveal some secret,
if we only guessed where its keyway was.
Try one, have a go.
Between thumb and crooked finger
take the bow, apply some torque and turn its shaft.
Listen for pins tumbling to their shear line,
and imagine.
The view from a sash window,
a tune from a musical box,
the petty rattle of a cash tin.
A sewing-machine’s whirr,
escape on an unchained bike,
a sandwich in a briefcase.
The whiff of grass cuttings in a shed,
the privacy of a drawer,
keepsakes in a treasure chest.
I’d carry on about the openings,
the untold stories behind front doors,
but you’re not persuaded, I can tell.
Simply scrap metal, you argue,
not even worth recycling.
Whatever. This collection stays -
you never know when one may fit.
Along with the redundant foreign coins
I’ll leave you them in my will,
an array of question marks.
viii.2009
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