The receipt was folded into quarters

The receipt was folded into quarters,

the ink gone pale except the town name at the top—

a place we hadn't said out loud in years,

a stretch of road I can't think of why we'd stop.

The dome light barely reached the compartment.

I laid it all out on the passenger seat:

two pens without caps, an expired registration,

insurance cards, a receipt I couldn't read complete.

The car goes tomorrow. Buyer's coming at noon.

I sat there trying to place the trip, the year,

which long drive that was, which mood between us,

which silence we both finally stopped for gear.

I kept the receipt. I threw the rest away.

The town name's legible. The total's gone.

The dome light's still on.

I've been sitting here too long.