Proof

I dropped my phone and crawled to get it.

That's when I saw the sticky note taped to the underside—

just a name, just a number,

the handwriting trembling.

Around it, the deposit of hours:

gum pressed flat and gray,

a business card from a company

that dissolved in 2003,

a bobby pin, receipts nobody meant to leave.

The underside of the table is where

you go when there's no other surface.

Where you leave your prayer

and hope the right person finds it.

I photographed it.

Didn't call.

Left it there.

Someone else will find it.

Or maybe nobody will.

Maybe it stays taped there

until the table is cleared,

until the note crumbles,

until whatever prayer it was

gets forgotten again.