The Price Sticker

The price sticker's still there, a yellow square

below the bridge at dusk—still stuck, still there.

Three years. I bought it at a sidewalk stand

while we were walking, meaning to. My hand

never found a beginning, so it went

into my coat, then into the intent

to write it later, then the later box

I moved twice without opening. The clocks

have done their thing. The back is clean and white.

The address field. The stamp box. The polite

blank space for words I was going to choose.

I found the charger. The card. I lose

nothing by keeping it. I set it flat

face-down beside the box. And that—

the bridge at dusk, the sticker still,

the blank address—was what I'd fill

no time with, apparently. The white

back of it. The dusk. The bridge at night.