What Stays

A reporter’s close-up,

catching the light.

Stamped metal, numbers etched deep.

A name that’s more than just sound.

It hangs there, a small, hard truth,

against the faded cloth.

A piece of somebody, kept.

We carry them, or they carry us,

this identification.

When everything else is lost,

what remains is this chain,

this tag, this simple, grave claim.