What Falls and Stays

I moved the bed away from the wall

to paint the baseboard. Saturday.

Behind it: the usual haul—

a phone charger, dusty gray,

a paperback I'd thought I lent

to someone years ago.

And then the receipt—face-up, spent

and faded. March 2019. Below:

two meals, a bottle of wine.

A restaurant that closed in 2021.

I couldn't trace the evening. Fine—

I stood there. Got the painting done.

Put the bed back. Threw out the charger.

The receipt is on the nightstand.

I don't remember the dinner.

I remember the name on the check.