Oh bulletin board,
you are an ever-growing hoard
of memories no one else will remember.
Positioned so carefully in December
so the moon can illuminate you
through my sorry window in blue
on nights when I require tormenting.
You love to evoke my lamenting
about how I seemed to overlook
an important aspect that shook,
about how those on my wall
would never be able to recall
any thoughts of me at all
thumbtacked on their wall.