Silver — a gleam on the corner of Constance & State
yesterday — three keys, 
			Robert printed on a tiny dog tag.  

What woman once chose his name, as she stroked 
her pregnant belly — who whispers
			his name to him today?  

I walk, at low tide, along this mussel gleamed, breeze-
stroked beach.  His keys in my hand. 
			They will never open anything for me.    

					
                                                                    
	
Because they belonged to others & because I will never 
know their story, I pick up 
			buttons, gloves, ticket stubs — 

consoled, often, by owning some small thing from other lives, 
linked to them — as I belong 
			to their brief glint here, to their dying.  

                                                                    


Those keys now against my skin for an instant of impossible 
intimacy, no one here to see me: 
			an old woman who mourns still &

paces a beach, useless keys in fist, as waves open & close 
their doors & she hums 
			a small song to herself, almost happy.