The Locksmith's Touch

House of a thousand doors:

I dream of the perfect key.

My cunning eyes fix on your taut lock,

dark, cool holes, quite like candy,

lonely buttons, something to touch,

plated mouth, tromp l’oeil.

In the delicate clasp of your silk hour,

I arrive at the last latched room.

Fearless lever, bright dead-bolt

shining tooth, bit and biting.

Fingers pluck the darkness

of places locked and barred.

Skillful break-in, mechanically precise,

If I hold my breath, I hear your breathe.

Charming smile, clean, neat hands,

the locksmith’s virtue is his trustworthy face. 

Third Wednesday, Fall,  2011