The Plastic Hinge

The latch is stubborn. It gives with a crack

of old plastic and settled dust.

The smell of wet newsprint comes out,

mixed with the scent of the heater.

I found a map of a place I left seven years ago.

The creases are white and starting to tear

at the corners of the world.

Under the manual, a yellow crayon

has melted and then gone hard.

It is stuck to the gauge for the tires—

a bright, waxy smear

left by a hand I can’t quite name.