The Blue Strap

The line ahead moves like a crawl,

a slow unfurling of the day.

I watch the counter, leaning tall,

and see the blue strap start to fray.

It holds a card, a plastic square,

where someone's face is barely seen.

A faded name, a vacant stare,

behind a window, slick and mean.

It’s nothing much, this simple band,

that keeps the working world in place.

But in that worn and casual hand,

it seems to hold a certain grace.

A quiet tether, day by day,

that keeps the bits from going astray.