Lucky Strike
        at grandfather's house
by Priscilla Turner Spada

Found: a tin of keys–Lucky Strike,
it says, with a bullseye of red and gold on green.
Grandpa must have squirreled these away.
They're tied and tangled on a two-ply string,
with knots between the metal tops–all forged
in different shapes, including diamonds, hearts,
and spades, recalling playing-card motifs.
I can see his gnarled-up fingers tie
the twine in loops to keep the keys from jumbling.
Burnished dark and smooth from many years
of use, they're cool and clinking in my hand.
Radiator keys have tube-like ends
that, when turned, let the steam escape;
padlock keys wear a green patina;
this tiny key with lacey filigree
may fit the scroll-like lock on the ornate box
I found. I hadn't dared to force it open.
Would there be treasures, or just webs of dust?
I'm searching for my long-lost family lore–
taken to the grave with early deaths–
the missing puzzle pieces. But all I have
are these old skeleton keys–long and sleek,
with club-shaped tops and blunted teeth.
They're made to open any vintage door,
with common locks, and keyholes you'd gaze through.
Empty rooms are all that I can see.



 

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