Legal

Three weeks the legal pad has sat

on the kitchen table.

One word circled twice on the top sheet—

a grocery item, I think. Eggs, maybe.

A mug ring in the corner

from whoever brought it down and left it

like they were filing something.

The rest of the page completely blank.

I almost moved it this morning.

My hand got close.

I felt the cardboard backing,

the slight drag it would have made on the table.

I made toast instead.

Ate at the counter facing the wall.

The yellow of it sat in my periphery

the whole time—

that specific legal pad yellow,

not the yellow of anything warm,

the yellow of a form still waiting,

of a parking ticket under a wiper blade.

I've been eating breakfast standing up

for three weeks because of this.

I just noticed that.

The pad is still there.