by Bill Yarrow
You just can't believe your key
won't open the front door anymore.
Determined to prove reality wrong,
you board a flight to Budapest
and walk wet streets in search of
a keyhole you're convinced exists.
And when you find it on the side door
of the Nicolae Bakery, your wry heart,
rapt with vindication, laughs heartily.
The key works! It really works!
But you don't enter. You don't dare.
Time passes. The seasons alter.
The world gives birth to triplets.
People drop hot pennies into your hat.
All rights reserved.
This poem appeared in Atticus Review on July 19, 2011
Thanks, Katrina Gray.
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).