The pocket of this corduroy is stiff with time

The pocket of this corduroy is stiff with time,

holding a slip of paper from two-thousand-twelve.

Purple ink bled out until the destination

is just a smudge of indigo on the lining.

I remember the 3 AM hum of the vending machine,

a low-frequency anxiety that matched my teeth.

It cast a sickly green glare over the plastic seat

where I sat with my knees pulled up like a barricade.

I was twenty and terrified that the driver

would forget I was human and just keep driving.

Now I look at the ticket and wish I could get back

to a world where a forty-dollar fare

meant I was finally going somewhere.