Asked and Answered

He asked it genuinely, which was the part

that got me. *What's the point, though,

if you never—* and he trailed off

the kind way, left me the door.

I said something. I know I said something

because he nodded and moved toward the drinks table

and I kept talking to someone else for an hour

and drove home in the dark.

The notebook was on the passenger seat, open

to a half-line from two weeks ago.

At the light on Morrow, the pen rolled

under the seat and I didn't reach for it.

I've been trying to remember what I said.

Something about the record, maybe.

Something about needing to put the thing down

somewhere outside your own head.

But I got home and the apartment was quiet

and I sat on the edge of the bed

with my coat still on

and couldn't tell you now if any of it was true.

Maybe I keep the notebook

the way you keep a light on in a room

you're not in.

Not for anyone. Just against the dark.

Or not even that.

Maybe I just like the weight of the pen.

Maybe that's the whole answer

and it isn't enough

and I'm still going to do it.