The creases don't match

The creases don't match.

They go north-south,

but I need east,

and where they cross

the text has worn away

to almost nothing.

I'm circling somewhere

past Market Street,

or I was Market Street,

or the map is wrong.

The folds are deep—

someone creased this thing

the same way

fifty times,

wore a path

through the paper

so the street name

lives in shadow now,

unreadable.

I've been driving for an hour.

I know this.

I know the time.

I know I said I'd be there

by now.

The GPS died at the bridge.

3% became 0%.

And I'm holding paper

like it's supposed to work,

like maps still work,

like anyone still knows

how to fold one,

unfold one,

read one.

I don't.

I'm lost

in the way people used to be lost,

before the phone,

before the voice,

before someone could always

tell you

where you are.

The map sits on my lap.

I can't find myself on it.

I can't find the street I'm on.

I can't find the intersection

that matches

what I'm seeing.

Maybe I'm not where I think.

Maybe the creases have lied to me.

Maybe I've been going the wrong way

for an hour

and the paper knows this,

has always known this,

but the folds

won't let me read it.

I pull over.

Call someone.

Ask where I am.

They tell me.

I'm ten miles past where I should be.