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a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

Dear Keychain Multitool

I spend more time with you 
than any living thing, 
except any bacteria which
rides on me without permission.
You’re worn silver in places,
youthful black left in the
pockets of the three pair of
jeans I rotate like
innocence lost.

 You were advertised as 
helpful and handy,
but you’re mostly 
just there.

 You’ve opened beer bottles
and I’ve failed to use your
misshaped philip’s head 
a bunch of times,
keys flopping around
like angry insects
as I turn and strip a
screw.

 Why do I keep you around?
We are not covenanted to 
one another.
I could peel open the jaws 
of your ring and slip you
into the trash without a 
twitch of my conscience—
but I won’t.

 Given our relationship, 
I think I can share my heart
with you:

 I’m scared to miss out.
I’m scared I’ll need you
and not have you.

 So I guess you could say
I’m glad you’re along
for the ride.

Those Days Are Gone

Road Prayer