What the Pins Held

She left without a word—no note,

no out-of-office, nothing on the screen.

They gave me the job. I boxed the coat

hook, the mug, a plant gone lean.

The corkboard went last. I pulled the final tack

and the whole thing swung out on one nail.

I stood there holding it—small, rust-black

at the tip. Four circles, pale

orange on the cork, where something had been

pinned so long it stained. Two years. The ghost

of corners. Rectangular. Unseen

by me until now. At most

a photo, a list, something she'd kept

for herself. Maintenance came. Took the board.

I put the tack in my pocket and stepped

back to my desk. The wall: restored

to a different white behind where it hung.

I went back to my chair and sat.

The tack's still in my pocket. Among

the things I kept, there's that.