What We Keep

I reached for the registration

and the past fell into my lap—

receipts from restaurants

that closed,

a loyalty card for a gas station

I don't drive past anymore,

a pen that's been dead

for months or maybe years.

All of it dusty,

like it's been hibernating

in that small dark space

I never open.

How long can you carry

something without knowing

you're carrying it?

How many miles

on how many routes

did this accumulate?

I put it all back,

not careful,

just in,

and close the compartment

on the weight of what I've

forgotten I keep.