Front door key, back door key, car key, garage key, suitcase keys, all the keys you have, you lay them all out. The key to the photocopier room at work, your neighbour’s key, a tiny chrome key for a diary you threw out years ago, the key to your Granny’s clock, the winder key for the oak kitchen table, chrome and bronze keys, Yale keys, Chubb keys, the key to your mother’s house even though you left ten years ago. You don’t know what some keys are for. You’re all keyed up. There aren’t enough keys to the puzzles around you. If you found stiff locks you’d oil them so their keys turned smoothly. If you had the keys to the city you’d keep it open twenty-four seven. You don’t want to look through keyholes and you’ll never use the key to the door at the end of the long dark corridor. You won’t. You promised. Maybe there’s a keyword you’re missing, or a key on the keypad, the keyboard that you’re not striking. You should know by now that things only work properly if you key in the right number. You don’t know what key you sing in. You want to go to the Florida Keys. Did he leave his key? He left his key. It’s a blue key. You try it in the lock – it slips in, turns easily, and opens the door. You close the door and do it again. It works every time. You hold it tightly until it feels hot in your palm. You want to lock up your heart and throw away the key, let it rust at the bottom of a drain, turn green in a lake. But you’ll make a duplicate. It’ll be a good thing to have more than one key.