I found your jacket in the back of the closet yesterday.
The one you left that summer. In the pocket, a receipt from Ma's Diner.
Two dollars and a quarter for two coffees and a slice of pie.
On the back, in your pen: 'Meet me at the station at 4.'
I was forty-seven minutes late. You left without me.
Now I'm getting married next week. I was cleaning out the car and found an ice scraper in the glovebox. In July.
I never left this town. I finally see the road I took.
This is a voicemail. Your number probably doesn't work anymore.
But I needed to say it out loud. I still have the receipt.