Half-Answered

Under the stack of bills

and that one yellow flyer,

the paper from last July,

a dry, flat thing, a faint aroma.

And there it was, the grid, a quiet coma.

Some letters firm, a few erased,

a sigh of graphite, hardly traced.

The clue for 7-Across, still a blank,

beside the coffee stain, a faded rank.

No satisfaction, no neat, clean close,

just ink and paper, where a thought froze.