Whenever I make a friend,
I create a key.
I write their names in my address book
and set out to mould brass.
I met a new secretary at work.
I stole a glance at her and
watched how she typed a letter.
It stuck on my memory.
I went home and incubated her image.
I made a thin key, mimicking her fingers.
I also made it jagged
to reproduce clutter of her typing.
I put a ring on the key and
hung on a hook
like hanging fish in a cellar.
I ticked her name in the address book.
I stepped toward her house.
I inserted the key into the hole
and turned it.
From Brittle Star No 20 (Autumn 2008)