Yesterday’s Air

Cigar boxes hold memories,

steeping them in tobacco’s

lingering fragrance,

a Halston note for the nose

when living eyes meet

those the light has left,

grandparents

frozen in smiles

and golf shirts

among ticket stubs

(remember when they tore the ticket,

that moment of prayer

that the part you kept

would still say Van Halen

when you slipped it

into the back pocket

of your 501s, how damp

it was by the time the

house lights came up?)

A letter from Mom

received at summer camp,

a desiccated rose,

from a boy who wanted love,

a graduation invitation,

a poem (another boy

wanting love),

a hospital bracelet

(No, I didn’t keep my tonsils),

nametags from conferences,

a token from Showbiz Pizza,

matchbooks from restaurants

(remember those? People used to

collect them),

and a ribbon

for my hair

inside this box of rain.

Time capsules don’t need

to be buried—

they need to be opened,

breathing tobacco

into yesterday’s air