Three Numbers
A naked man stands at his locker. Oh
no. Has he forgotten? Has he forgot?
Has he forgotten everything he knows
or is this just the very first forgot?
He stands dripping in his own puddle, then
locker doors are slammed by naked men.
He grips the combo dial; he tries once more.
Then tries the numbers that he tried before.
The black dial makes a reassuring purr.
The old world still wobbles on its axis;
wars wage, hearts break, kids fall, death & taxes.
Click, Click. The kindest sound a soul can hear.
The holy three numbers that will allow
him to escape this long terrible now.
—Patrick O’Leary
Painfully apt.