Another envelope thin crisp edge

Another envelope, thin, crisp edge

against my thumb, a small paper cut.

I know what it says before I break the seal,

that dull throb of a name, a date, a sum.

Voice mail, flat tone, about the scan

I barely recall, some blurred memory

of a cold room, the hum of a machine,

a tech's tired face.

Now this faded printout,

ink turning gray at the edges,

crinkled, like an old regret

I keep stuffing deeper into a drawer.

It’s always there, a low hum

behind the hum of the fridge, a knot

I can’t quite loosen, just

shifts its weight, waiting.