Still

A phone number on the tile in black ink,

half-smeared. Below it, one word:

STILL.

I stood at the sink

too long. Down the hall

the hand dryer kicked on for no one.

STILL. I took a photo.

Walked home in the cold. Looked at it

under a streetlight, looked again at my door.

The ink already bleeding past the grout—

a wet hand had dragged across the word

and didn't wipe it out.

Somebody's whole mouth

pressed to a bathroom wall.

I keep opening the photo.

That smeared L. That small

sure hand. Whoever it was

meant it.