Confession of Keys

by Zhenya Yevtushenko

We dance together under couch cushions, while he curses blindly in search
of us.
We tire of responsibility, chained to us as we are to each other, twelve brothers & sisters,
a family of purpose.
We are finally found after the daily search, an eviscerating existential exercise,
he is ours.
We bite his leg with our serrated toucan bills, a heavy choir of pocket jingling, again yearning to tickle tumblers in a few hours.

One of us, exists only as a relic of love
no longer the gatekeeper of hope.
As for the rest of us, other tasks beckon
teeth warmed by a car’s ignition,
an unswift fumbling open of a mailbox,
muffled click at the end of the workday.

We the duty-bound, await the day
we dance discarded in rusted luxury,
in earthen slumber no longer
heavying his pockets,
forever connected.