keys
the first year of my new life.
i drift,
sort of.
in reality, life
cannot be told in years.
there are always wonderful days,
there are always horrible days,
and most days are just
okay.
with this, i drift.
so
my father gives me his new spare key.
my mother givers me the second key to the mail box,
and i pretend:
the jangle of keys in my pocket is not
the sound of my life
falling apart.
6
3
1