Dead Air on Paper

The glove box hinge is loose and dry.

I reached for the insurance card and found

this square of notebook paper instead,

folded so tight the edges have gone soft.

I saw your name on a telephone pole today,

underneath a headline for organic kale

and a phone number with a local prefix.

It made my throat go tight and small,

a sudden snag in the middle of a Tuesday.

My thumb has pressed the blue ink flat.

I’ve carried these words for half a year

until the loops of the letters started to bleed,

staining my skin with things I didn't say.

Maybe I’ll just leave it there,

wedged between the manual and the light.