Ode to a Car Key

Oh, magical switchblade key

to my 2014 Chevy,

you ignite more than my engine

as I grasp and turn your smooth black fob in my fingers.

I thumb your silver button,

and the tactile sensation is eclipsed only by your sound:

a quick whisper as your blade key extends,

followed by a sturdy click as it moves into position,

ready to take me wherever I need to go.

It’s like a short ASMR video I can play over and over,

release the blade, whoosh, click

retract the blade, push, click

or the looping execution of uncertainty:

Should I go? Should I stay?

Discovery/Delay.

Departure/Arrival.

Perhaps my affection for you

is rooted in codependency.

We need each other for this to work;

I cannot go without you,

and you cannot work without my touch.

You do not talk to my car independently like a newer fob,

brimming with proximity sensors but utterly replaceable

by smartphone integration that can do your job for you.

Newer fobs are the perfect tool for the social distancing era,

but you like to touch-

your retractable blade making contact,

penetrating and twisting to instigate a spark.

Oh, retractable switchblade key

to my 2014 Chevy,

analog tool in a digital world-

I love how you wait your turn,

hiding on the side of the fob when not needed,

waiting patiently to be called into action,

waiting to be released with another touch of the button,

waiting to extend with a whisper and a click.