Mystified
A book out from the library
Occasionally holds
A paper with a message
Or a list within its folds.
The borrower who left it
May have used it as a mark,
Reminding her whence in the tale
She needs to disembark.
I’m used to such remainders
But today I was surprised
To take note of someone’s writing
In a place that mystified.
On the last page of my writing book
(Which I am now approaching)
There’s an inked-in cell phone number
On my private space encroaching.
Above it are some letters
But they do not spell a name.
Did someone write this in the store
From which this journal came?
Of course, I never noticed it;
The book appeared brand-new
And really, what’s the difference?
There is nothing I can do.
I had the thought, though, what if I
Picked up the phone to dial
That number waiting there? I won’t,
But oh, that makes me smile!
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