Inventory

The sun is too loud for a Wednesday morning.

It hits the dashboard and lights up the crumbs

of a grocery store muffin I bought for the drive,

a dry, crumbly peace offering to myself.

There is one pink candle stuck in the top,

the wick still white and stiff and unburnt.

It looks like a finger pointing at the ceiling

of a car that smells like old coffee and damp floor mats.

I’m a year older and just as far from the coast.

The silence in the front seat is an eviction,

a notice that the time I thought I was spending

was actually just a loan I can't pay back.