It sits in the drawer under the bills

It sits in the drawer, under the bills,

that small book, a promise of elsewhere.

I pulled it out, just now, against my wills,

and found the photo, staring back there.

Ten years ago. A face too firm,

too eager, perhaps, for what was ahead.

A stranger, almost, past the worm

of doubt, before the words were left unsaid.

And the expiration date, a stark, black line,

creeping up, a quiet alarm.

Another ten, or maybe just nine,

and the world outside holds little charm.