Perfect Key

In an old cigar box in his ethereal bureau drawer,

He remained hopeful with this one key of many

From his mind’s junkshop collection of pass keys

As he gazed at the dresser’s mirror reflecting a wrinkled pale face

Surrounding a feverish contemplative “why,”

This one key’s yet-to-rust shiny surface stared back at him.

The rest of his imagined world afforded

A view of the backyard of years past

Where now but one leafless tree

Remained loyal as the sacrificial caretaker.

Today he didn’t know why…

But clouds found solace in the fading horizon

As lightning echoes of past encores

Ejected salty rivulets from his eyes

Down his withered cheeks,

Onto a final resting place

And the beginning erosion

Of the only remaining unscathed key

In the box of tearfully rusted skeletons to nowhere.

Oh, how he yearned for a visit from that yet-to-appear untarnished fit,

A fresh opener to the door of his patient heart,

Where honesty and conviction would keep deceit at bay,

Where neither technology or real people might betray

His determined need to trust.

Such were the final thoughts as the doctor called the time of death, 3:20.

As the light faded quickly,

He remembered how luminous the sun had been that afternoon,

How the key glistened in that final moment of hope.