speaking of keys...

a briefcase lost deep in the heart of the southern sahara once spoke,
sun glancing off cracked black leather,
papers shuffled hopelessly,
of some sort of ministerial oversight which resulted,
in the final analysis,
and practically overnight, actually,
in its loss, that is,
the briefcase's loss, roughly speaking,
the separation of the briefcase from its owner which,
actually,
wouldn't have anything to do with the southern sahara or anything else except that,
right away,
it should be mentioned that the keys belonging to the owner of the briefcase,
including but not limited to front, side, rear doors of house,
car,
and U-lock seldom used
were in the briefcase at the time of separation which is strange,
incidentally, because the owner of the briefcase was the sort who never,
whether by oversight,
by carelessness,
by accident,
through sheer stupidity,
a sense of adventure,
that romantic need to “just let it go”,
ever, ever, let the keys out of the pocket except, of course,
to open a lock,
and thus the placement of the keys in the briefcase was an aberration so unlikely,
so alien,
that upon hearing that the briefcase and keys had been shipped to the southern sahara from chicago, the owner of the briefcase could only pat the left pocket of the pants, over and over, rubbing up and down, over the pocket, over the leg, the thigh, slow at first, then fast and frantic, then reaching in to check, emptying the pocket, pulling out wallet and matches, checking the other pocket despite having never put the keys in the other pocket,
could only sit and sob.