Keys

I had never been superstitious,

never worried on the 13th floor;

unable to discern meaning

in broken mirrors or black cats;

but at some point it seemed

a bad idea to throw away keys,

not knowing what they might open,

what might be closed forever.

They were filed and forgotten,

but finding them one day,

I found no conceivable purpose,

and determined to reclaim reason,

I gathered them up on rings

and gave them to a small boy,

memories of old cars and houses

finding new life in the Batcave.