No Locks Available

The key is rusted. A bit broken.
It hangs on the wall,
no locks available for it to do what it was mean to do.
And so rusted. A bit broken.

About this poem

Believe it or not, this was a six stanza poem earlier this morning. Sometimes poetry is more about whittling away than writing.

A poem about keys. A poem about being made for something you are never allowed to do or be. Poetry is never about one thing.

The photograph was taken in Surry County, Virginia, at the Rogers Store Museum, which my father practically willed into existance many years ago.

Tom