Postmark

I saw a car today, a faded, sickly green

just like the one she had. I haven't seen

her since the winter it all fell apart.

I found a postcard, a little piece of art

I never sent because the stamp was nice.

I’m cheap, I guess. That’s my only vice—

no, I have plenty. In the drawer’s dark heat,

I found a centipede with a hundred feet

curled in a brittle, dusty letter C.

It’s too late to say what I meant, probably.

I should have licked the glue and let it go

back when I had something real to show.