The Board

I bought it to keep the days in a row

but the edges are starting to fray.

A bill for the light and a slip for a coat

from a season I threw away.

A rusted tack holds the ghost of a dog

with his tongue hanging out of his head.

He’s been gone for years but he’s pinned to the wall

near a list I will never read.

I pull at the corner of something old

and the cork crumbles under my nail.

It’s just a graveyard of things I was told

and a wind that died out in the sail.