Magnetic North

The Scotch tape went yellow years ago.

It finally let go of the white enamel,

drifting down like a dead leaf

while I was reaching for the milk carton.

It’s an invitation to a wedding

for a couple who already sold the house

and split the records into two piles.

The corner of the postcard is curled,

stubbornly refusing to lie flat on the floor.

I pick it up and feel the dried adhesive,

a square of tacky residue left behind

on the door, marking the spot where

I kept a lie because it looked like a plan.