Proof of Purchase

I reached for my keys in the deep, wool fold

and pulled out a slip of paper instead.

It’s crinkled and stiff, two winters old,

a list of two coffees and a loaf of brown bread.

The purple ink is starting to fade at the edge,

listing a total I paid in a different life.

Before the new bank and the broken-off pledge,

before the sharp edge of the butcher’s knife.

I fold it back up and I smooth out the crease,

feeling the way it fits the curve of my thumb.

It’s a small, paper scrap of a momentary peace

from a time when I wasn't so tired and numb.