Chain of Keys

On a bruised lip pillow
a dream of keys
makes its visitation
through the tall weeds
of night.
A house of boxes
on the side of a hill
and a vanishing friend
gives me a key.
"This house is the
music of my memory.
I must evaporate
so look after it well."
Now I wander through
the stagnant rooms
past the hammered dulcimer
and the lidless cow's eye.
Past the cancer ravaged corpse
of the dead superhero.
My blind soul and unknown heart
are inflated with gusts of terror
and puppet stringed with strands
of dread.
"Do you like jokes?"
says the ragged visitor
stiff arming through the door,
"beacause this one's on you."
Streams of people from
unfamiliar tributaries
rush into the house,
Run to the center,
crowd the thalweg,
and push me out.
Now I hear
the snare crack of the door slam
and see windowed eyes burn
with entitlement and contempt.
I ghost the sides
of the square box house
sanding my useless hands
with tiny cuts.
They infect with doubt
and swell into split skin boxing gloves.
I punch a hole
into the wall
and
drain the art and life
from my right hand.
Upon re-entry
I am burned
by the wreckage
of my situation.
The people have left,
returned to some
other laughing shore.
Every window and door
is forced ajar
and sideways sheets
of furious rain
shred the frail foundation.
I run panicked and searching
through every shrinking room
for a set of keys
to close the doors
and lock the windows.
A set of keys to keepsafe
the music of a memory.
Each key
on the age worn ring
I find at the top
of the last hour
is unfamiliar,
unremembered
and as useless
as I.