Adhesion

The magnet gave up while the bread was in the slot,

a slow-motion tumble of things I’d forgot.

A menu, a coupon, a bill for the gas,

all sliding down to the tile in a mass.

Underneath the pile was a card for the vet,

a reminder for a cat that I haven't fed yet

since the summer the air in the kitchen turned thick.

It’s funny how long the dead things can stick.

I’m left with a square of the cleanest white paint,

a ghost of an era when my memory wasn't faint.

The rest of the door is all grease and old grit,

except for that one spot where I used to sit.