The gas station paper is soft as a shirt

The gas station paper is soft as a shirt,

fraying white at the cross where the folds all meet.

I’m staring at a field that the map says is dirt

while idling my car on a paved-over street.

Everything moved while I wasn't looking,

a cul-de-sac blooming where a creek used to run.

The cartography's old and the city is cooking

up exits and entrances under the sun.

I’m tracing a route with a fingernail groove,

but the ink is a ghost and the landmarks are gone.

It’s a strange kind of grief when the latitudes move

and leave you just sitting on someone else’s lawn.