Sitting on the deck with cigarettes and an evening alone,
I think of the way we trolled the yard for a place to hide
the key, a spare you would use in case, and we practiced
turning it in the lock, and your small hands were strong
enough and I marveled that you knew to leave the flat
side down--and I told you to find this silver treasure
if I was stuck in traffic, or god forbid in just a little car
accident, and you seemed bewildered but I know you'll
ride the bus tomorrow and hope in secret pockets that
I've forgotten or wrecked (just a little) so you can tip
the heavy garden St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things,
an unearth a shiny symbol of independence, something
yesterday you wouldn't know if you'd seen it peek from
beneath a cement statue, and inside I hear you talk in your
sleep, and a guitar string snap spontaneously and echo,
and I hear a crunch and feel sure I've stepped on a ladybug--
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