Which opens no door,
No window or hatch,
For no building now stands,
Where the doorway once was.
No parking lot or painted lines,
No fines for the tickets,
No moving violations to unlock.
The key sits by the fan,
Waiting for hands,
To warm up the brass,
A useless contraband,
A token of access,
Now left to dispose.
The other side reads,
Do not duplicate,
Now destined for trash,
For keys with no locks,
Who can not pretend,
Their purpose is ended,
Their notches undone,
Long after the tumblers were fixed,
And the screws swollen shut,
The place with no name, and no way to remember,
What those keys once unlocked.
