Points Accrued

It’s a orange piece of plastic with a hole punched out,

wedged between a library card and a ten.

I haven't set foot in that county, I’d say, for about

three years of not being that person again.

The magnetic strip is a map of fine scratches,

promising discounts on lumber and galvanized nails.

It’s the kind of scrap that the memory catches

when the rest of the heavy machinery fails.

We were going to fix the porch in the spring,

buy the cedar and the stain and the heavy-duty glue.

Now it’s just a useless, light-weight thing

that proves I once spent a Saturday with you.