What the Pencil Became

I was paying for gas in the rain

when the wallet slipped—and out it came,

a folded note in pencil, four years kept,

hitting the wet concrete while I stepped

back, too slow. I watched the marks dissolve.

The last word first. Nothing to resolve

or save from it. The rain just took

what it took. I bent down for a look

and picked it up and put it back.

I don't know what I thought I'd lack

if I let it go. The words are done.

The paper's thin. I carry on.

There are things you keep not for the words

but for the keeping. That sounds absurd.

But here it is in the worn card slot—

soft-edged, illegible, still not

thrown away.