Unaddressed

It was under the menu for Sal’s,

tangled with a bit of copper wire

and a blown fuse from the dryer.

A picture of the suspension bridge

before the fog rolled in.

The stamp is still dry,

a bit of grit on the tongue of the queen.

I remember the table where I sat,

the heavy thud of the mug

that left a brown, circular ghost

across the span of the cables.

I never did find the right words

to put in the white space.