Vonnegut's Ghost

There it was, wedged behind

a stack of New Yorkers, dog-eared,

its spine broken in all the right places.

Slaughterhouse-Five. Still yours.

The cover, warped a bit,

from where I left it in the rain,

once, on the porch swing.

My name isn't in it, of course.

But your penciled notes are.

Tiny, precise script, arguing

with Billy Pilgrim, circling phrases.

'So it goes,' you'd underlined.

And page 47, marked by a brittle,

yellowed Post-it, just a corner

sticking out. I never looked at what

you thought was important there.

I just kept it. I still do.