Temporary ID

Fingers in the drawer, digging past

old receipts, a tangle of charging cords,

and then it was there, stiff plastic,

yellowed, a small loop.

My name, faded black ink,

a date I can almost read.

It felt like a cheap prize, some token

from a bad carnival ride.

Remembered the way it bit,

or just felt too tight,

that white band on the skin

when everything else felt loose, unmoored.

It’s still buckled. A small circle

of memory, a soft indent on the wrist

that isn’t there, but is.

It stays. I don't know why it stays.