One key.
Too many locks.

My last eight minutes with
my father were coming to
an abrupt halt.
The key hanging loosely
around my neck
(on a piece of string that
my father had in his suit pocket)
never came undone.
His face. His voice.
Slowly but surely, they
were fading, too.
My eight minutes were coming to a close.
I traveled through the city on foot,
but I wore heavy, heavy boots
(filled with loss and anxiety).
But the key had not found
its lock.
I had only my dad’s
scrap of newspaper to keep
me going.

Notstop looking.

But I was running out of my father.

After the twenty-first Saturday of my search
for the lock,
I slammed the door shut and collapsed
on the floor,
unable to hold back any longer.
I held the key (incredibly close)
to my lips and I screamed
(extremely loud).

His last words still rang in the stale apartment air:
Are you there?

But I was not.