Landlord left it there

Landlord left it there,

propped against the trash can.

A relic, beige and thick,

from '98, yellowed pages stuck.

Water stained, the binding cracked.

A record of all who had, or hadn't,

made a name, a number.

Before screens ate up the world.

I flipped it open, just to see.

And there, in blue ballpoint,

circled hard, a name.

'Smith, R.' on Elm Street.

I used to know an R. Smith.

Ran the dry cleaner on Elm.

Always smelled of chemicals and starch.

Never smiled, but he knew my name.

Wonder if it's him.

Or another Smith entirely.

Just a name, fading from the page.

A ghost in ink, no longer called.