When I light out from some place, two questions come up: did I leave a mark and, as important, what did I forget? Here’s a poem about these questions:

So few have seen the pictures of my past

I tramp up familiar dusty stairs

And clack the brass ring attached

To the door of my old apartment.

I want to retrieve a framed print

I left on the wall.

The print means little to me—

I know it depicts a horse

But can’t remember much else.

It was a whim to come,

A dull curiosity, or the hope

Of a story to tell.

How the horse, with its

Serenity, assuaged the pain

Of some tenant I never knew.

But then, she would refuse

To give it back, wouldn’t she?

As the door opens, I cough

And almost turn to leave,

Embarrassed, remembering

This is a silly idea.

But I stay and state my purpose

And the man

Says he’s never seen the print.

I peer around him,

At the uneven chocolate hardwood,

The curve of a beige lampshade.

On the Formica counter in the kitchen

Is a wet knife and a halved tomato

Still quivering.

There is no horse on the wall

Where I left it.

There is no memory of me

Except a faded smudge of ink

Near the light switch.  Made when

I ran into the apartment many months

Ago with a burst pen.