Written on the back of a napkin with pen pulled from a purse,
Dents and punctures in the pressed plush of the paper,
Sketched on the back of the notepad by the cash register,
Pen drops from fingers as a customer comes,
Tapped as a rhythm on the taut leg of the jeans
Once the keys have found the pocket, as the feet cross the street,
Hummed at the stoplight,
Drawn on the back of the hand,
Drawn on the back of the newspaper,
Drawn in a margin,
Drawn on the notebook’s muted brown flipside,
Drawn in the seventh hour
Out of eight in the shift when the feet are sore and the task feels meaningless and every task feels meaningless and exhaustion is two warm dry foreign fingers lowering your eyelids against your will.
Outlined on the back of a receipt.
Scarred by a jagged scribble when the bus rolls over a bump.
Folded, and slipped into a pocket.
Unfolded, smooth, pen-lines like a blueprint.
The click of a pen. Its tip glints in the light.