What the Tape Left

I found it taped to the fridge—

a phone number, someone's name

in handwriting I don't recognize.

I don't know where it came

from, or when he put it there.

I pulled too fast. The corner tore.

I tried to press it back. The tape

won't grip against the door.

The last digit's gone.

I've been standing in his kitchen

for twenty minutes. Fridge still running.

The window light is thin.

Thinking about who this was,

whose number, what they meant.

I could call what's left of it.

I won't. The tape is bent

back against the door.

A rectangle of gray lint.