On the floor of my car
                         lies
                         a motley bunch of keys,
                         maybe a hundred or so.
                         I found them
                         among the flotsam
                         left behind by my father
                         when he died
                         some years ago.

                         Bemused,
                         I thought of trying them out
                         on all the sundry locks
                         of all the sundry houses,
                         parsimony an inherited
                         characteristic.

                         Driving, I glance at them,
                         and sense
                         a procession of possessions
                         and responsibilities,
                         and a strong desire
                         of not letting go
                         of any.

                         In the background,
                         the keys
                         in tune with the car's engine
                         are humming
                         the song of mortality.