Old ones from forgotten locks of long closed doors
of houses whose halls she once strolled.
Strange ones found at flea markets, abandoned
in drawers of hand-me-down furniture.

They are horded in coffee cups on the high shelves
of cupboards with the seldom used fine china.
Not bound by rings or chains or fobs,
they are tangled and messy like spent lovers.

Each week one is removed from its cup
and set between the ones for the car and house.
She smiles as she passes unfamiliar doors
imagining that her mysterious key will fit.

Again an unused key is exchanged for another
while secrets remain untold, fantasies unfulfilled,
treasures undiscovered, and demons unloosed
behind long closed doors and long forgotten locks.

And smiling patiently she waits
for just the right key,
to just the right door
on just the right day.