The Lock

Looking for something else,
I found you, or at least a
Part of you, wholly preserved.
Forty years is a long time
In forgetting, reserved for
Lesser things really. So
The lock of hair, curled
Inside a dollar-souvenir, a
Florentine forget-me-not,
Was slightly upsetting, I
Thrown fool-like back
To an innocent past, of
First love, re-imagined-
Clay feet, awkwardness,
You on the tender pedestal
Me, the flailing bellhop.
Oh, days on the rack!
Such gyrations, deep incisions.
Now these fifty strands,
A timeless curlicue
Limp in my hand, are all
That was you, was us really,
A golden spray too
That formerly was brick-real
Inhabited by ourselves.
Outside, rain is falling,
I replace the lock, pondering
The uncertain day,
Inside, a kind of gloaming.
Such strange alchemy-
gold into grey.