“Keepsakes” by Michael C. Paul

I have an old brass key that fits no lock.

The numbers etched on it match my birthday.

I didn’t notice that for many years,

though surely that is just coincidence.

It’s on a chain with silver saints’ medals:

winged St. Michael casting the Devil out 

and Mary welcoming with outstretched arms

all supplicants who have recourse to her;

also a Kansas Jayhawk, red and blue,

with large gold beak and golden, buckled shoes.

they’re kept along with other things within

a broken pot that once held marmalade:

a pair of pince-nez with a single lens,

a fountain pen that long had lost its cap,

Leaning against it is an old photo

of a famous place where I have never been,  

and metro ticket canceled long ago.

Close by, a leather covered decanter;

I guess I lost the stopper when I moved. 

Why I still have them makes no sense at all,

I should have cleaned my room out long ago.

I guess I’m just a packrat through and through 

What’s more, I’m scared that someday I might need 

the key to open up an old locked box,

a safety lock, or some forgotten drawer.

Perhaps I’ll use the ticket as a mark,

to hold my place within a treasured book.

For now, I’m making use of a receipt,

that’s wrinkled, yellowed, and illegible,

for a watch I bought way back in ‘96.

Michael C. Paul is a writer, illustrator, and historian living in Virginia. His work appears in The Lyric, Amethyst Review, Havik, The Sunlight Press, and The Orchards Poetry Journal. He is a four-time award winner in the 2026 Poetry Society of Virginia annual contest.