dark summer

You were a phone number
on a folded piece of napkin
wedged inside the bottom of my purse
where the matchbooks and chewing gum wrappers fell
with all the change and lint and dried, uncapped pens

And I watched you float down
and almost miss your mark
when I emptied the bag above the trash
to make room for other things that were lately.

I remember you writing
then putting my pen inside your jacket pocket
thinking to myself, “This is it, this is really it”
when it wasn’t.

 

About this poem

Written 7/8/93, 6:04am. Here’s what I wrote at the bottom of the scribbles:

“My long lost sister visited during a sleepless dream and gave this one to me.”