The note scribbled on a scrap of paper
A job at home, errand, item to buy
Person to call
Pushed in a pocket, tucked in a slot on the dashboard, cornered on the desk blotter, posted to the calendar.
Ignored, found too late. Forgotten. Laundered.
Good intentions gone bad.
In handwriting bordering on code, That even I can’t decipher a day later
The line for a poem that came to me while driving, written at 55 miles per hour,
Eyes off the road.
Paper on the airbag desk.
A line worth dying for ?
Not at all. Opening the paper at 10 o’clock that night, sitting on a couch with coffee and piano music playing the words.
“Bad habits. Writing notes.”
Is another reminder of the things undone.