The Counter

The kid behind the glass is barely twenty.

He has a lanyard and a sense of power

that comes from saying no and not enough.

My father stands there in his Sunday shoes,

the ones he shines with a rag in the kitchen.

He holds the Ziploc bag like it’s a lung,

something he needs just to keep breathing.

The certificate inside is soft at the edges,

frayed from the years of being proved,

the paper growing thin from too much touch.

He doesn't mention the bridges he built

back when the world was a different shape.

He just nods and folds his hands,

waiting for the boy to see the man

instead of the stamp.