That Makes Sense

She walked me through it at the drawer—

her hand moving over the folders

in a shape that meant something to her.

Three letters I didn't know.

I said that makes sense.

Two more letters. A system

built on logic I could almost see,

the way you can almost see

the pattern in a carpet

if you're standing too close.

I said that makes sense again

when she paused and looked at me.

Wrote nothing down.

Later, someone needed the Perkins file.

I stood at the open drawer

for eleven minutes, the tabs

all the same font, the same height,

none of them saying what they meant.

Third folder. Wrong year.

Fourth folder. There.

I pulled it out and walked it over

like I'd gone straight for it.

I still don't know the letters.

I haven't found a way to ask

that doesn't require explaining

Tuesday.