Produce

The glove box is full of the maps we don’t use,

and a pen with the ink dried to salt.

I found a scrap buried in lint and in screws,

a relic of someone else’s fault.

The cursive is sharp with a long, looping 'L'

for the lemons you said that we lacked.

The paper is yellowed and starting to smell

of the three years since you never came back.