An old leather wallet,

Torn and falling apart at the seams.


Three fake IDs,

With names from West Virginia

And America’s Great Plains.

One driver’s license,

            With the photo of a

            Young man

            With green eyes

            That have seen things turn to mold.

A picture of a boy

            With a smile like the sun

            And an Ivy League sweatshirt.

            (There’s a reason why

             That picture’s not bent

             And is on display like a Rembrant

             In a museum.)

A couple wads of cash,

            Not much and

            Wrinkled like the face

            Of time spent in the

            Nuzzle of a bottle.

Four credit cards,

            Bearing names from


            And New Dehli.

            They don’t match

            The blonde and green eyed

            Boy in the driver’s license photo.

            (Nothing in the wallet matches

            That driver’s license photo.)

And last but not least,

In the back, hidden and from sight

Is one group photo,

            Faces still and serious.

            There’s a girl with blonde hair

            And lips pursed like they’re kissing

            A Coca Cola bottle tip.

            The edges are bent,

            But a number’s scribbled

            On the back, in bright red ink.

            (He didn’t call her

            And now she’s unreachable,

            No service in the sky.)

                        (Now that you think about it,

                        There’s a reason this one is

                        Hidden away like last week’s regret.)