Notes

There are are notes
I've written onto
yellow pads,
scattered on my desk,
and scraps of white
paper, envelopes,
napkins, pages torn
from books, all
with numbers and names
of varied importance,
scribbled in haste,
left by the phone,
the computer, some
even legible, but most
are vague, like lights
coming at you in the fog.
Maybe the sun will
come out and dry the sky
and let these reminders
in ink remind me
of what and where
and when I need to be,
and with who, but if not,
so it goes, I'll find
a way to manage, or just
maybe, once their
irritation dies down,
they'll call back.