Access Granted

Felt it in my wallet,

a thin, stiff rectangle.

This old library card.

The photo shows a face

I barely recognize,

too hopeful, too smooth.

That plastic square

was a key, once.

To quiet rooms,

to shelves that smelled of paper,

dust, and time.

A place to vanish,

or to find yourself

behind the cover of a borrowed life.

Still good, I suppose.

If I remembered the number.