The Old Address, Still on the Label

I was making room.

Houseguest coming Saturday,

the cabinet half-open,

and there it was behind the current things—

a prescription from the apartment on Garfield.

The one I left in November

with two trash bags and a plant

I knew wouldn't make it.

I held it up to the light above the mirror,

the way you'd check an egg,

and the pills shifted, orange at the edges,

small enough to be for something minor.

My name on the label.

A dosage. A date in 2019.

An address that doesn't know

I'm not there anymore.

I didn't open it.

I stood in the bathroom

with the cabinet still ajar

and the bottle going amber in the light

and thought about the person

who needed these,

who filled this,

who drove home to that street

and put it away

like something she'd get back to.

The houseguest is coming Saturday.

I put the bottle in the paper bag

I'm taking to the pharmacy.

I didn't write a note.

There's nothing to explain.