1987

The drawer held a Bible,

and inside, a name

in pencil, barely legible,

dated 1987. Someone's claim

to God in a motel room,

a last prayer or first,

written in the gloom,

left behind, thirst

unquenched for thirty-six years.

No one came back.

The spine stayed tight. Tears

maybe, or the lack

of tears. Just a name,

a year, a thin prayer

left in a drawer, game

over, no one to care.

I traced it with my finger,

careful not to smudge

what was already smudged. Linger

here, I couldn't budge

from the weight of it—

someone's desperation

left in a room, bit

by bit, a prayer, nation

of one, praying to

something in the dark,

and me, finding it, too

late to leave a mark.

I closed the book.

Some prayers stay here,

not with the person who took

the time to write them clear.