In my bathroom there's a scrap of paper
passed from shirt pocket
to jeans pocket
to shelf above the washing machine.
It's torn from some workshop programme,
my notebook left at home,
and on it, scribbled quickly,
one sentence
said by that man I didn't know.
"A million years ago I played rugby in Vienna."
I wrote it
I keep it
because I know
that it's a door
to somewhere.