Nobody's

The noodle's been back there at least two years—

orange, sun-faded, cracked where it was bent

into the back seat. It sometimes appears

in the side mirror. I never meant

to keep it. I don't know whose it was.

Sarah asked today, first time in the car.

I said I didn't know. There's no because

that I can offer. She looked out. The scar

across the foam is white against the orange—

the color it was when it was new, almost.

Three states, at night, it's been there. Nothing foreign

about it now. Just present. Just a ghost

of someone's summer.

Nobody's.

That was true.