I found it in the junk drawer still

I found it in the junk drawer, still

in the cellophane sleeve. The sticker on—

one-fifty, red-and-white, unpeeled.

A rest stop. Wyoming. Long gone

from whatever I was going to say.

Mountains in the photo. A sky

that could be any sky. The back

is blank. I don't know why

I never sent it. I had a pen.

I had someone I was going to send it to—

someone I can't fully place now,

four years out. I stood in the hue

of the kitchen light and held it.

The sleeve still sealed. The sticker still clean.

The junk drawer had: dead batteries,

a tape measure, a key. Between

all of that, four years of the postcard

in its sleeve. The mountains unchanged.

The blank back. The one-fifty.

Whatever I meant to say, estranged

from me now. I set it on the counter.

It's still there.