The Weight of Plastic

He spun his ID,

a bright new thing.

The plastic gleamed,

no scratch or ding.

His photo, crisp,

a hopeful face.

He had his spot,

his brand new place.

Mine hangs heavy,

a dull gray strap.

The plastic cloudy,

a long, slow trap.

My face inside,

a ghost, it seems.

Another day

of small, dead dreams.

The grease of habit,

on the worn-out thread.

A constant pressure,

to my neck and head.

This cheap old band,

it holds me tight.

A small, hard badge,

extinguishing the light.