The Hope Chest
The lid is fast,
grimed with dust and age
polish and grease.
If I could open it,
Hope would fly free,
in an exhaled sigh of moths and grit.
It would catch the throat with incense.
So I content myself with tracing round the carvings,
place my fingers where the brailled blind once did
sit with itchy legs on cut moquette
as the buckles on my sandals mark the beat.
Smell camphor and apples on the breeze I raise
and wonder drily
where I hid the key.