1.

            When you arrived

            I told you how he’d

            taken back his keys,

            how light the brass ring

            feels in my pocket now.

                                    2.

            At that bar in the country

            where we danced until midnight

            the singer whose voice I’ve longed

            to wrap around my pillow

            told us how the wind blew

            his keys into the lake,

            how he caught them

            as they were going down

            but never found his watch.

                                    3.

            Your sister used my bathroom

            when she drove us home,

            came out, eyes wide, told us

            I just flushed my keys down your toilet.

            Earlier she’d begun to bleed

            after four months dry, cheered

            she’d become full woman again.

            Now the keys rest somewhere in my pipes.

            Years of water will rush over them

            long after we all lock other doors.

                                    4.

            Separate stories of one day’s time?

            In a fairy tale three keys mean

            gradual transformation, discovery

            of treasure chests within.                                                                   

            Connection? As I write

            a princely man I’ve never seen

            sits next to me on this metal bench.

            A clanging noise: yes

            he slaps them down, picks them up,

            jingles them in one large palm

            before the bus arrives.

                                                                        for Diane