What We Needed That Week

Sharp cheddar, Greek yogurt, a bar of soap,

the week laid out in your particular hand—

I found it in a book I'd held with hope

of getting to it. Now I understand

that I won't read the book. That I'm just here

in the library aisle, fluorescent, still,

holding your list from sometime last year

and the word batteries underlined, until

I put it in my pocket and I left.

Which is, I think, a kind of theft—

taking the week you needed from the shelf

and carrying it home inside myself.

AA. As if something still needed power.

As if you knew. As if you'd marked the hour.