The Key

You’re barely through a first read
of a really dense poem –
one you can’t make heads nor elbows of
but you have to log out
cause if you don’t…
if you don’t get there by noon
The Sunday Grocer is closed
and you’ve spent so much time
reading and scribbling
and trying to decifer
your own handwriting
that the fridge
is [virtually] empty…
so you head for the door
remember to slap your pocket
but it’s not there
and then you think of things
you didn’t put on the list last night
[chick peas and good olive oil]
so you find a pen and do that
and then you look around
and you know you really are
looking for something…

What am I looking for, you mumble
and then [but this time plainly outloud]
you answer yourself
The key, I’m looking for the key.
meanwhile that poem you were reading
sorta invades by stealth
the left-side of your fevered brain
but you’re still poking under magazines, repeating
The key. That’s what I’m looking for: the key:
and then it hits you –
That’s what were all looking for, all along: The Key
and then you laugh so hard you have to stop and go pee.

.
.

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