Evidence of the Wrong Year

I was looking for the 1099 from the bank

buried in a box of manuals and old warranties.

It fell out of the pages for a VCR we junked in '04,

a glossy 4x6 that should have stayed face down.

There’s a kitchen party I only half remember,

the linoleum floor sticky with spilled beer.

You’re in the background, leaning by the fridge,

with a smile that looks like a thin, sharp blade.

It’s a dishonest look, a look that knew secrets

long before I was smart enough to ask about them.

The light hits the side of your face just right,

showing the gap between what you were saying

and what you were already planning to do.