Expired Access

It’s plastic, flimsy now,

from some forgotten wallet slot.

The college logo, faded,

a ghost of blue,

and my face, a blurry thumbprint

on the small square.

Younger. Not just years,

but a different kind of tight.

The magnetic strip, scored,

unreadable.

No more late-night stacks,

the smell of old paper and ambition.

No more overdue fines

I could barely afford.

The corner, smooth from use,

a kind of fossilized wear.

A key to a different self,

a different set of questions.

It means nothing now.

Just a piece of forgotten access,

a past self,

still trying to read

the numbers, illegible.