The wallet is a graveyard of things

The wallet is a graveyard of things

I forgot to throw away.

I find the card for the place on 4th—

four stamps, three more to a free sub.

We were going to go back on Tuesday.

That was fifty-two Tuesdays ago.

The silence isn't a wall,

it's more like the glue

where I peeled the sticker off my phone.

A gray, lint-specked patch of tack

that catches on the pad of my thumb.

You can't wash it off.

You just wait for it to get dirty enough

to stop being sticky.