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!