The Great Ball of Lost Keys

Under the sofa they gather, all on tiptoes,
polishing their tips with the breath from pockets,
whispering stairs and locks like forgotten scores.
They spread a tablecloth of receipts and cards,
the sweet thing is a spring and metal mechanism,
the little candles are lancets that extinguish time.
The padlocks arrive with bills and old letters,
they brought hats of rust and shattered certainties;
they dance the waltz of afternoons that opened doors.
When dawn slips away, only small signs remain
a knot of ribbons braided around a button,
and the promise that that evening, from some pocket, they will return.