Consignment

He takes the skeleton key from his pocket,
Inserts it into the ribcage,
Rotates the door on its hinges;
Pulls out a treasure.

A beautiful flower
Or a diamond,
Sometimes in the rough,
But always his treasure.

At her request,
He hands it to her:
Leaves of carbon-pulp
Stitched together;

Or bits and bytes,
Traveling o’er wire and glass,
Made visible
By electroluminescence.

She turns to examine it,
But not yet;
There’s a journey ahead
Before she can assay.

He can but watch
As she turns to walk away,
Holding in her hands
His softly beating heart.

© 2021 H.K. Longmore