The glove box is jammed with the ghosts of the North

The glove box is jammed with the ghosts of the North,

with paper that’s brittle and starting to yellow.

I used to have reasons for heading straight forth,

back when the engine was steady and mellow.

I’m trying to fold it, to match up the lines,

but the creases are worn into white, jagged tears.

It’s a geography made of forgotten designs,

and the dust of a dozen unnecessary years.

It won't go back small, it won't fit the slot,

it’s a landscape of places I’ll never go back.

I’m holding a world that I’ve mostly forgot,

while the paper is splitting along every crack.