Third Place, Retained

She picked it up before she'd closed the door,

the way you do with something strange and small.

I'd stopped noticing it—two years, the floor

of the cupholder, the gradual

fade of the engraving. She asked.

I started the sentence: so this is from—

and lost it. I'd been tasked

with nothing. A hotel. Some

ballroom partitioned off. The category

was sports, which none of us followed.

Third place. The plastic trophy

hollow in my hand. I'd borrowed

space in the cupholder for one night

and kept forgetting. She said huh.

Set it back. The drive home was quiet.

The trophy sat between us like a rough

translation of something I'd meant

to deal with and hadn't.

Neither of us spoke. I went

the long way. I can't

explain the trophy either.