Locked

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The lock on the antique foot locker
catches my eye,
turns my mind to choreography about
that first summer, listening to Jane’s Addiction
and stealing kisses by the sea.

This chest here contains all those memories
in loopy letters on notebook paper,
like strands of treasure through which I
could run my fingers
if only I had the key.

The lock on the antique foot locker
has been tight for decades,
the key lost or stolen years ago.
I scowl at it, over my shoulder.

If I pressed my ear to the dusty wood,
would I hear the song of the sea,
the ancient opera of you and me?

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