No Name Above the Number

The wallet hit the pharmacy floor and out

it came — a square of paper, soft

from years of carrying. A stranger, without

asking, reached toward it. I was off

my balance, cards spread, a small

line forming. I got there first.

A number in blue ink. That's all.

No name. I've had it — at worst

guess — four years, across two wallets.

I don't know who wrote it.

I put it back behind a library card

from the last city.

Outside, the cold.

I've been asked what I keep in there.

I say nothing interesting.

That's not wrong, exactly.