Legal Pad

He kept a stack in his bottom drawer—

that yellow, not the cheerful kind, the more

official sort, the color meant to hold

whatever gets put down. I found it cold

this afternoon: his handwriting on top.

Milk. Batteries. And call—and then a stop.

No name. Just call, the verb alone.

I had to sit. The chair was his. The drone

of fluorescent light above the desk

continued. Yellow on gray. I pressed

my hand against the pad's top sheet.

February's grocery list. Incomplete.

I don't know who he meant to call.