What She Was Saving For

She wasn't someone who clipped things out.

That's what I would have said last year.

But there's a shoebox in her handwriting

on the closet shelf up here,

and inside it, hundreds, rubber-banded,

sorted by aisle and date.

A coupon for fifteen cents off a soup

that stopped existing before I turned eight.

The store it's from is a parking lot.

Has been for thirty years or more.

Still filed under CANNED GOODS. Still crisp.

Still worth fifteen cents. What for —

I don't know. What was she saving for.

She hated coupons. I would have sworn.

I've been in this apartment three weeks now

and I am past the point of worn

into something I can't name.

I can't find where the plates go.

I don't know who she called on Sunday mornings.

The coupons are sorted. That's all I know.