What the Car Kept

The registration in the glove compartment

was from a car I sold four years ago.

I don't know how.

It was folded into thirds,

gone soft — not paper anymore,

more like something that had been in the dark

long enough to forget what it was made of.

It tore at the crease when I opened it.

I sat in the driveway with my phone for light,

going through a pen with no ink,

a coupon for a restaurant that closed,

a receipt with no numbers left on it.

I kept almost throwing things away.

Kept almost not.

He came at nine. I said it runs good.

He said you can tell. Drove it

around the corner.

Gone.

I keep thinking about that paper.

How soft it had gotten.

How it came apart right at the fold,

like it had been waiting a long time

for someone to finally try to read it.