Perforated

The board was meant to stay a month,

a place for lists and grocery stunts.

But three years went and turned to four,

beside the frame and by the door.

I pull the tack and watch the fall

of cork-dust settling on the wall.

A plumber's card, his number dead,

is all the history I have read.

The surface is a thousand holes,

a map of all my smaller goals.