Map Dust

The dashboard lights blur.

Hours of highway, the same worn sound

of the engine. Fumbling for my glasses.

My fingers met brittle paper,

a folded map, creased

from a trip that feels like another life.

This small, cramped space,

wedged between the dash and door,

holds more than just receipts.

Expired warranties,

a crumpled napkin,

a deflated balloon, its color faded.

Dust motes dancing in the faint light,

settling on forgotten directions.

A whole geography of pauses,

packed away.

Still waiting.