The park map used to be shoved in a back pocket,
slick flap of wrong folding I'd surrendered to.
Something to fight over with little brother
since he'd left his on the train. It was shade for the stroller,
a wrinkled souvenir. But now my phone holds
these little rides that always start on time,
and when it sleeps I trace my finger trails:
here's where I was, over there's where I want to be.