The Imprint

It was just there, flattened,

in an old copy of Merton,

a pizza box lid from '07.

That half-moon of dark

grease, translucent

on the cardboard, like

an old man's thumbprint.

Stiff and yellowed, it still

smells, faintly, of pepperoni

and something else,

dust, yes, but also

that night. That specific

compromise. How some things

don't wash out, not really.

They just dry to a crisp.