Key. Hole.

 

By silver sliver of a

Valentine moon

I drop a golden key

Into prairie dog tunnel depths

For safekeeping

Quiet through a hundred winters

safeguarded through dog generations

Just in case

Just in case

I need an open door again.

I wonder.

Probably because I’m tired

Of endless wind

And gray skies.

If prairie dogs

Hang scarlet crepe curtains

Over bricked up windows

 

Color same as the shrapnel

Lodged just behind my eyes

from self destruct buttons

 

tunnel vision

Looks like

A cannon blown

Deep into the ground

filtered silt mixed with bones

On the shrapnel mound

I love to stay burrowed in at home

We’re alike then,

The dogs and I.

There’s a bright sadness

About so much

Freedom.

Like loving boats but not oceans.

 

I hope when comes the time

I can find the

Right door on which to knock.

 

 

 

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