Patient

I found it in the bag I stopped using—

the canvas one, with the broken snap.

I was looking for my transit card, choosing

between the pockets, working back

through what I'd left. The bracelet surfaced,

white plastic, slightly yellowed at the clasp.

My name on it. I almost said: who is this.

The date: a Tuesday. I couldn't grasp

it being a Tuesday. I held it up

against the light from the window, checked the ink—

blood type, patient number, the cup

of whoever I was then. I think

I put it on the sill and went to make tea.

I don't know whose name I thought I'd see.