There must be a metaphor in this box of locks,
box of combinations, their heavy cinch on themselves,
but I don’ t know what it is as the man at the Y
hands me the whole collection and says,
“be my guest.”
They all say Master ,
most are black, and if I twist the combination
perfectly, maybe one will open, declare itself
mine. What do they do with them all?
What’s the half-life of the wrong
combination? When do they set the little
locks free? A hundred, at least, in this box.
I howl. Silently. Then, after picking up
a dozen locks and weighing them in my hand
as if their metal works’ clank could give me a signal,
I spin a few dials. I put them back.
I’m not sure I even know the numbers anymore.
I just slide the box
across the counter to the man and say, “thanks,”
and he nods, unsurprised.
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