Satisfactory

The manila folder was at the bottom of the stack,

between a receipt for a tire and a map of the city.

I pulled it out and the staples were black

with a fine, rust-colored grit that felt like a pity.

1998. Fifth grade. Mrs. Callahan’s hand.

She wrote 'Potential' in a looping, red scrawl

right next to a 'C' that I didn't understand

back when I thought I was ten feet tall.

The ink has bled into the cheap, grainy pulp,

a soft blur of expectations and old, dusty grace.

I read it twice and then swallowed a gulp

of the air in this cramped, expensive place.

The electric bill is sitting on the counter, unpaid,

and my potential is a car that won't start in the cold.

I’m exactly the person that the teacher portrayed:

satisfactory enough, and starting to get old.