RUST

Mark

I’m going back to check out the key, to see

if the earth has swallowed it, pulled it into

the soil that was as mushy as quicksand.

I’m bringing some plastic wrap to cover it

before putting it back, to coat it and protect it

so that it won’t turn to rust.

That’s what’s bugging me, the thought

of the shiny key turning orangey-brown

then flaking away in bits and pieces.

I’ve been wondering how long it would take

for a brass key to decompose. That’s not

something we learned at school because they

Only teach us useless stuff, like the symbols

for elements, not stuff we need to know like whether

oxidization takes place inside the earth.

I want this key to stay shiny and new

so that I can come back here when I’m older,

like someone on an archaeological dig,

Looking for clues of some long lost

civilization, only in this case it would be

the civilization of my father.

I’m going to stay all night, like I’m on a field trip

or maybe even two nights if that’s how long it takes

to make sure I’m doing things right this time.

This could be one of those strange initiation rituals

where boys go into the woods and build huts

and talk to the stars or hunt wild boars,

Or maybe a vision quest, where guys hang out

in the trees and wait for a voice to speak to them

telling them what to do and who they’ll be.

My voice would be my father’s, its soft tone

and hard accent mixing me up, telling me to pull

myself together, just like he used to.