Paper Weight, Penciled Lives

This fat book, yellowed,

a forgotten monument, overhead

the window keeps banging shut.

My hand traces a name, a rut

worn by a finger, hers.

Next to Miller, a few blurred

numbers, a question mark.

Was he the one who fixed the spark

in the fridge? Or just the man

who loaned her a pan?

The pages smell like old paper,

a faint, dry vapor.

All these lives, just listings,

a directory of missed things.

Her penciled notes, a small map,

across this brittle paper flap.

I don't know why she kept it,

but now, I'm stuck with it.