by Camilla Jean Welsch

What’s that?

The key to an apartment in which I don’t live.

It has a balcony on the 2nd floor and a half,

and soft white linens, and pale throws,

and on the bed are baby clothes,

and the woman living there is a single mother.

It comes as a premonition to me, seeing on the pavement this dropped key.

It comes attached to a yellow, rhinestoned C,

heavy, as I debate it in my hand where to set it now,

and I hear a baby somewhere cry beyond, and then quiet down.

But the woman and the baby and the apartment and the key

are just a memory of an early light’s dream.

And I suppose that woman is supposed to be me.

But I have no baby, no pale throws, no baby clothes,

and the key?

What’s that?

I don’t know.

One thought

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