Official Document

The photo in my old passport, stiff and stark,

my face, a flat plane, without a single mark

that speaks of living, or of things I've seen.

Just an official stare, unnervingly keen.

I held it to the mirror, the bathroom's stark light,

and saw the lines around my eyes, the slight

slack in the jaw, the tired, lived-in set

of a mouth that’s learned to worry, to regret.

That person, so certain, so unlined and grave,

does she know the storms I'd learn to brave?

This paper ghost, fixed for a decade's span,

and the stranger staring back, the current man.