018751 this was the lunch code I was given
My first day of third grade
My teacher wrote on my hand
With a green marker that smelled like berries
018751 this was the passcode for my first email
That my best friend made for me
Because that was the only set of numbers I could remember
For even though it was no longer written on my hand
It was still written in my brain
Etched
Each number
0
1
8
7
5
1
There’s a dog that sits on the end of my street—
he barks at anyone that nears,
snarling teeth that glow shiny in the afternoon light.
There’s a dog that sits on the end of my street—
You asked me to stay
As you gazed into the future
Longing once more
I am not a poet
I don’t know how to use my words the way they can
I can’t captivate the minds of my friends by stringing them along with the simplest of words
I am not a musician
Comments
I still use a variation of my high school ID card number as a password to this day (I'm 31)! Interesting to think about the ways in which we develop attachments and add meaning to such inconsequential things sometimes.
Log in or register to post comments.