There with a scattering of his things,
an old tie tack, a spelling medal,
his lieutenant’s bars from the war,
was the torn corner of an index card,
two letters, three numerals, neatly penned.
What could it be? It’s his handwriting all right,
that flat-topped three and crossed seven
relics of his degree in chemistry.
But what is it? Not a phone number, nor
an address, but something he wanted
to remember inscribed on something at hand
that found its way into an odd drawer.
I have no idea what it is,
and I don’t know why I’ve kept it.
Brian McAllister is a retired academic who lives and writes in rural Southwest Geogia.
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