curious pockets

    I suppose it all started
that day I found
a key in my pocket.
How it got there is
kind of another story.
You see, I found it
while I was on the fire-escape
of that building over there,
or maybe it was that one . . .
Regardless, I was there and
the key was with me.
A man from within the building
opened the fire exit door.
“I need a key.” He said,
in a urgent way.
“Oh, well I just found one.” I responded,
but not so urgently.
“Can I have it?” he held out his hand.
I looked around for a moment
at the clouded skyline and gray building tops,
the dirty streets and the tiny people
with their lives (and cellphones and lattes and computers,
meetings and flights and appointments and business reports and taxes,
points of view and rights and opinions).
I considered my current position within the world.
And then said,
“I think I’ll just come with you.”

    So we went into the brick building,
or was it glass . . .
Anyway, we went in.
The long hallway of doors
stretched  out  before me.
I suppose it was all white,
or at least mostly white.
But that doesn’t matter.
The fire exit slammed behind me,
but when I turned there was
only infinitely more hallway.
“The key opens the right door.” My new friend said.
“But there’s no keyholes.” I responded in
one of my particularly more observant moments.
“Look harder.”
And I did. Did you know that keyholes
aren’t always next to the doorknobs?
“So which is the right door?” I continued.
“The one the key opens.”
“Ah, I see.”
I returned the key to my pocket, and
off we went down the hall;
checking doors and
dodging unnecessary complications.
124.53 doors down, the key didn’t fit.
“Wrong door.” I said.
“Wrong key.” he said back.
I tried my other pocket. That key fit.
“Ah,” he said, “here’s what I was looking for.”
A long hallway with hundreds of people and thousands of doors,
or was it thousands of people and hundreds of doors  . . .

    Anywho, I think it was crowded, but that’s up to you.
The people were going in and out of doors,
They all wore
masks and costumes
of nightmares, imaginations, inventions, and wonderful dreams,
but no one bothered to notice anyone else.
They were far too busy.
The hallway itself didn’t exist,
if you looked really hard, that is.
We, my friend in I in our own costumes,
continued our search.
2037. 2 doors and 12894 people later
(don’t be silly, you can’t have a fraction of a person),
another keyhole.
I opened it with my first key.
A mop fell out.
“Ah,” my friend said (again),
“here it is.”
He took a ring of keys hanging on the inside wall
next to the door, and clipped them
on his belt. He picket up the forlorn mop and
wheeled out a yellow water bucket.
“Keys please.” he held out his hand.
I acquiesced.
“Last time I put anything in my pockets. Damn holes.”
He laughed. I didn’t.
He wheeled off, whistling something
severely out of tune.

     I know, you’re probably wondering
how he kept all that clean,
but I couldn’t tell you.
(Why? Well,) about here is where that one story starts
in which I found
a pen in my pocket.
How it got there is
kind of another story.
You see, I found it
while sitting on this bench, here,
or maybe it was that one over there . . .
Regardless, I was there and
the pen was with me.