If you happen upon
and open the notepad

I took on holiday to
write plans and poetry –

coming across that napkin
with her name –

do not imagine it is more
than a simple thing,

seeming exotic
or suggestive because

you didn’t expect, like
bloc steno or

bloc de éspiral, even
spiraalnotablok, because

these too are only words
for the everyday and plain.

Look closely in the
corner and note its

imprint of a coffee stain
when I had perhaps

spilt from my breakfast cup
or even wiped to clean.

The hearts? Lipstick?
Imagine her late at night

a pile of these and
signing with red felt,

hoping a tissue of such
tenderness will prompt a tip.