Pinned Plans

The closet smelled of dust,

and something like old paper.

Behind the winter coats,

a rectangular ghost.

My fingers brushed the cork,

rough under the grime.

A curling concert stub,

faded, 'July 2008'.

Next to it, a shopping list:

'Milk, bread, new journal.'

Never bought the journal.

A blurry photo,

beach town, sun-bleached pier,

a place I meant to go.

The thumb tack holding it,

rusted right into the wood,

a brown stain blooming out.

So much held up

by a tiny metal point,

waiting for an action

that never came.

Just this,

a stiff board,

a map of what didn't happen.