Wrist Deep

Like velcro, slowly my hooks are making their way into this place. In the curvature of my fingers is the gritty snow, the trash-laden snow, the handlebars of subways, busses, the storied remains of people who held these keys before I held these keys; I hold many keys now.

Each fits perfectly into a lock somewhere where I am now permitted. I utilize them, one by one, like a tongue in the mouth of a lover, unlocking. I fondle them in my pocket as I walk down the street. I think, walking, of all the doors I can open.