Outstanding

It was folded into a tiny, sharp square

in the pocket of the charcoal wool.

A twenty-dollar loan from a summer

that feels like it happened to someone else.

The ink on the receipt is a pale, dying gray.

I’m sitting in the car with the engine off,

adding up the years since he asked for it back.

There is no way to pay a ghost.

The ledger stays open, a small, dark hole

in the middle of my Sunday afternoon.