His keys speak to him. They say, “Stay home.
Bad things happen out there.” They know
he won’t listen, so they wait for the morning
his alarm forgets to go off; the day he’s running
late for a primo tee time or a meeting
with the boss, and then they decide to hide.

They dive deep into couches, slink off tables,
sit hunched on pushed-in chairs, burrow deep
into piles of dirty laundry. They muffle their jangle
in winter jackets with pocketed gloves, lay low
in stacks of mail and newspapers, squat in the corners
of book bags and briefcases. These keys are clever,
so he tries to sneak-up on them, crawling on his belly
with flashlight shinning, hoping to catch their glint
under beds and sofas only to find their doltish cousins
— lost coins and ball points. As hope slips away, he petitions
St. Anthony, who still preoccupied with Amelia Earhart
and Jimmy Hoffa, never helps. Bereft, the man simmers
to a boil, frothing he screams, curses; pillows and shoes
take flight. A cyclone forms; his wife, kids, even his dogs
take cover. As he rages, he hears the keys mocking him.

Eventually, he surrenders and takes his wife’s set
to the hardware store to be cloned by a mad scientist
with a maniacal laugh who for a joke cuts into
their soft tin the genetic code for agoraphobia.