The Fold

I looked at the map and my finger

didn't match where I was.

The fold lines don't line up anymore—

I'm standing on a street

but the street is somewhere else

in the paper's memory.

I used to mark these routes in pen,

little lines through neighborhoods

I thought I'd come back to.

I haven't.

The map folds wrong now.

The crease is broken.

I'm pointing at a place

that stopped existing

the moment I stopped going there.