A Key on the Wall
You wander through the abandoned house.
In the kitchen, the walls have the slightest bit of mold
and three hooks.
On one of the hooks, a key.
Small. Rusted. Deeply rusted.
Of course, you wonder what it is too.
There are no doors left here.
No cupboards to protect.
The key is too small
for the rusted John Deere in the back.
Too large for a padlock, even if there was one.
What do you do with a key
without locks? What value does it have?
Why preserve it, hang it on the wall?
What does it open?
And has it been locked all these years
waiting for the mating call of the key?
About this poem
Sometimes, I feel like I have wisdoms that have no value. What do you do with that?
Yeah, a strange pondering kind of Sunday.