The card went down behind the heat

The card went down behind the heat,

a slide of paper, white and slow.

I fished it out, a dusty sheet,

from three long winters ago.

The doctor’s gone, the office shut,

he sold the chairs and pulled the sign.

But on the door, a greasy cut

of tape still marks a ghost of line.

It’s yellowed like a smoker’s tooth,

still holding on to nothing much.

A stubborn, sticky bit of truth

that isn't there for me to touch.