The Key

I piled my arms full ,

of the baggage and sustenance 

needed for the day, 

and heaved it into the backseat.

I reached into my pocket, 

but the key wasn’t there.

Hours later, I’m still searching. 

I’m dumping out purses and backpacks,

finding all that I’ve unconsciously decided to carry.

I’m looking in all of the little cracks, 

between and underneath,

where I easily might have dropped it, 

while thinking of something else.

I dig through drawers overfilled

with objects that no longer have a purpose,

but, of course, don’t belong in the trash.

After hours of tracking 

the possible paths of this key,

and my heart that was bursting 

with exhaustion and overwhelm the day I lost it,

I eye the garbage bin warily.

I can think of no other place 

it might have slipped from my fingers,

that I haven’t checked, and more than once.

I tear the plastic and dump the bag,

digging through some of the 

messiest parts of the last few days.

Surrounded by tea bags, plastic wrappers, 

and soaked paperwork with devastating news,

I spot a glinting silver and plunge my hand

deeper into the dripping heap.

There it is, the key,

as if it had been waiting for me all along,

knowing that when I had searched long enough,

through the hints of the ways I still trap myself,

I would know where to find it.