A solitary yellow hotel matchbook lies on a snow-dusted sidewalk, its flimsy wooden matches exposed to the overcast sky. Why is it here? Did an overworked graduate student, snatching a smoke as they hurried to class, drop it, too distracted by the first inhale of vaporized nicotine to notice it fall? Did a passerby, resolved to finally quit, once and for all, discard it, only to buy a lighter two hours later for the half pack of cigarettes they kept? Will it be missed when, after stepping into the bitter cold, no flame is present to light that tiny pinprick of warmth? Will it be missed when a detested lighter must be used in lieu of a match? Will it be missed when hands start shaking, when an expectant cigarette hangs from a mouth, when jeans, wallets, purses, backpacks, drawers are frantically rummaged through? Will someone pick it up?