Thursday it was open

Thursday it was open.

Monday, plywood.

The boards were pale yellow, raw-grained.

Someone had already written on them—

a name, a phone number, black marker, neat—

as if blank space is always an emergency.

Above it, two holes in the brick

where the sign's bracket used to be.

Just circles.

The brick around them, the same.

I stood there long enough for the cold

to get through my coat. I thought

about the woman who pressed my shirts.

I never asked her name.

The marker ink sat on top of the grain.

You could see the wood going

its own direction underneath.