Invalid ID

I was looking for the flathead driver

to fix the cabinet under the sink.

My hand hit the stiff, blue texture

of a person I don’t recognize anymore.

There’s my forehead, glossy and young,

shining under the post office lights.

The lamination is lifting at the corner,

a thin bubble of air where a stamp should be.

It expired three years ago in June.

I haven’t crossed a line since the world shifted,

and now I’m holding a dead document

that says I’m allowed to go nowhere.