What It Held

Four pushpins and the board came down.

Behind it: paint that hadn't turned—

a square still bright, two shades too clean,

like something the wall had learned

to keep. Pin holes in the plaster,

neat and even, each a tiny well.

What they held is in a box now.

Twelve years of show and tell.

The bright square's already dimming

at the edges. Yellowing to fit.

A month. Maybe less. The wall

will close around it, and that's it.