Serial Number

I was looking for the Phillips head

under the tangled twine and expired coupons.

Instead, I found the metal tongue

that used to hang against my father's chest.

The stainless steel is dull but hasn't rusted.

The notch in the side is a tooth

waiting to catch the soft part of my thumb.

It’s just a name and a number stamped in cold,

holding onto a life that was eventually traded.

I put it back beneath the rubber bands,

but the edge of it stays in my skin,

reminding me how little we actually leave behind.