How to Pick a Lock

if every door is a way in,
how can they all be ways out?
does the room disappear,
does the thought get forgotten,
why did i walk in this room? 

i shut the door behind me
just as the thought entered
my head – keys, keys, keys. 

there they are, in my head,
scratching the wood table
every time they land
at the end of my days. 

this key opens a door,
this key opens a door,
this key opens a door. 

i get on my knees to peer,
to see my belongings
at the end of a telescope –

in there i want to be,
not here, confused
as to where to go if not home. 

my eye in the keyhole,
my fingers on the frame,
my body pressed against the door
as if i could pass through it,
a ghost. 

on this side are small sounds,
blood cells translucent,
a disappearing act
when no one is watching –

and all of sudden i am through.
the keyhole behind me,
gliding above my possessions,
possessed, a ghost.