Photo Evidence

The glove box drops its cargo on the mat,

a heap of manuals and dried-up pens.

I find a 4x6 where I am looking fat

and squinting through a cheap and greasy lens.

There is a plastic shovel in the graying sand

beside a cooler that has long since leaked.

I’m holding proof of summer in my hand

from a weekend when my memory was weak.

I don't remember how the salt spray felt

or who was driving when the sun went down.

The edges of the gloss have begun to melt,

turning the ocean into something brown.