I take from my wallet a scrap
of notepaper. Folded square,
worn shiny, its creases
disintegrating, a passenger
of decades.

I unfold it as reverentially
as one performing surgery
on a butterfly.

Two initials, a phone
number, a schoolgirl’s
purple handwriting. I refold
the delicate specimen
and tuck it away.

Charlie B. is an emergency room nurse in the Ozarks whose wallet holds far less money than it does memory.