The Card on the Desk

Her card sits corner-angled, pristine,

a font that's never had to doubt itself.

I said congratulations.

I said the right things.

But there's a taste

to watching someone step into

what you've been rehearsing.

The blazer she wore today

is one I saw in a catalog

and didn't buy.

She smiled and I smiled back.

We are both performing,

though only one of us knows

what we're performing.

The card is still there,

title printed bold.

Mine would have been smaller,

a different shade of paper,

probably.

I keep looking at it

the way you look at the door

someone else walked through,

tracing the frame

and trying to remember

if it was ever meant for you.