The Magician

keys
to my own
prison.

heavy,
in my pocket,
lethal,
to the definition
of home
on that book,
sitting on the
top
shelf.

the trashcan
gobbled them up.
(I starved for air)

repeating verbatim
of my broken years:
It’s anywhere
and everywhere
and I found it
nowhere.

Mrs. LockSmith
across the street
was touched,
she said she never met
someone who could break
into so many locks like me:
with no particular
Key.

I lacked in keys,
I lacked in better references,
I lacked in height to reach
still I entered
still I understood
still I looked from above.