I was digging for the car's title in the glove box

I was digging for the car's title in the glove box,

moving the crumbs and the registration,

when I found the envelope stuck behind the manual.

The postmark is a ghost from three years back,

a name I don't say much anymore on the front.

I tore it open with a thumb that felt too big,

the paper jagged and white like a broken tooth.

She was asking if I still had that green jacket,

or if I wanted to grab a beer by the river.

Now the ink is just a set of instructions

for a person who doesn't exist in this car,

in this driveway, in this version of the state.