Same Sticker, Different State

I'd never been to that town before.

I want to be clear about that.

There was nothing to remember.

But the light in the gas station restroom

came through the vent the wrong way,

and the mirror had a diagonal streak

like someone had wiped it with a sleeve,

and there was a yellow sticker on the chrome dispenser,

half-peeled, some logo in a font

too small to finish,

and I knew it.

Not the way you know a fact.

The way a door knows it's been opened

a thousand times in the same place.

My headache was behind my left eye.

It had been before. In this light.

Reading this sticker.

I pumped the soap.

I stood there.

Someone knocked.

I couldn't tell them

what was wrong

because nothing was wrong

in any language I know how to use.