He had a receipt All the way

He had a receipt. All the way

downtown, folding and unfolding it—

same crease, same thumb. I'd say

I had a reason to watch but didn't.

His hands were ordinary. Slightly

worn at the knuckles. The repeated

fold, the paper going lightly

soft at the crease, the depleted

text probably unreadable now.

His thumbnail held the corner flat.

I watched the whole ride. How

to explain it. Just that—

fold, unfold, fold. He got off

at Balboa. Stood. Pocketed

the receipt. The soft

seat across from me. I noted

three more stops. His hands

in my head the whole way home.

The receipt between them, the strands

of paper at the crease. The foam

of a thing almost gone.