I found what looked like a key
on a dusty shoulder
of a country road.

It felt natural in my hand,
stamped out of metal
with a looped eye,

the blade vaguely Egyptian.
It crumbled against my thumb
with age and rust.

A key would be useful
to unlock the disorder
of my son’s mind.

Wind blew in tiny coils.
Birds cried into the spiraling.
Anxiety raised my hackles.

I felt a tin can clatter
in my chest, a coat wire mangle
through the widest part

of my back. I stepped past
orange caution flags
marking future groundwork

that was also hidden
from me in a complex
infrastructure.

Dread knocked
on the clouds, clumping
an ominous gray.

Rain spit. I was out
of answers. The key
wasn’t really a key.