Unposted

The glove box is full of the things I ignore,

napkins and receipts and a map for the floor.

And this card from the coast, with the lighthouses red,

full of all the smart things that I never quite said.

The stamp is a curled-up and brittle old leaf,

the glue has dried out from a silence too brief—

well, not brief, it’s been three years.

I bought it in Portland when the air smelled of salt,

now it’s just evidence of my own stupid fault.