I'm sifting through the census of my failures

I'm sifting through the census of my failures:

notices in red ink, coupons for pizza

I can’t afford to order, a flyer for a lawn service

as if I own a single blade of grass.

Stuck to the back of a grocery circular,

a handwritten envelope has been hiding

like a secret I wasn't supposed to keep.

The postmark is four months cold.

The glue on the flap has turned yellow

and curled away from the paper,

surrendering before I even touched it.

Inside, an invitation to a spare room,

a chance to sleep in a house that’s already sold.

I sit at the table and watch the dust settle.

The opportunity has expired

just like the discount on the frozen peas.