I keep a collection of keys that unlock nothing looped together, tarnished neighbors on a lanyard and I imagine that they floss their metal teeth with junk drawer gossip. Sifting my fingers through the jar of spare buttons, I wonder if they whisper to each other in plastic voices and reminisce about the favorite shirt at last Thanksgiving’s dinner before the incident involving splattered cranberry sauce. I think the Monopoly piece holds a grudge against me, still considers itself a thief’s prize, but it is the only battleship I can hold in the palm of my hand, so it stays. Once, I inherited a pocket watch with a broken latch and I treasured the thing, would hold it up to my ears as a kid just to listen though I knew it wouldn’t tick. I suspect that when I turn away, its timeless arms reach for one another.