The Card

I found it in the drawer this morning,

the laminate soft from years of carrying,

the barcode worn to almost nothing,

the date that never came—expiration

always written in the future tense.

I looked up the address online.

The building is gone. Demolished 2015.

A parking lot now. Asphalt. Lines.

But the card is still here,

still valid in its way,

still speaking to a place

that doesn't exist,

a door that doesn't open,

a librarian who probably retired,

who probably doesn't remember

my name, or the books I took,

or the quiet afternoons

when I was someone who had somewhere to go.

The card says I'm welcome there.

The card says I belong.

The card says come back,

come back,

come back—

but I can't go back

to a parking lot.

I can't return a book

to a building made of nothing,

can't renew my membership

in the thing that's already been

erased from the map.

So I'm holding the card,

and I'm thinking about validity,

about permission without a place,

about the gap between

what we're allowed to do

and what's left for us to do it.

The barcode is almost smooth now.

Soon there won't be a trace

of any of it.