I have known the comfort of keys.

Each cold metallic embrace

the same as the last.

Marks and engravings left by each one,

after trying to force a fit.

Just another stitch in the side.

All keys begin the same,

the gold shine,

acting as a bug to a flame.

Almost too soon the gold is gone,

and what’s left is a coat

of brown sewer water.

I’ve learned the wrinkles

All keys have to hold.

Rigid waves,

alternating deep and shallow.

The keys I’ve used are now souvenirs,

on my key ring.

At least they jingle.

K. Hardt (she/her) is a junior English major and creative writing minor. She enjoys reading and photography.