Patient ID

Tangled in old tax forms, a faded receipt,

there it was. Yellowed plastic, stiff and curved.

My name, printed wrong, the birth date

a blur of ink. Cut ragged, where they pulled it

off, that morning.

A thin band, holding onto something

I don't quite remember, or want to.

Just the feeling of the sticky tag,

the quiet hum of the hall, the way

it squeezed slightly, a constant reminder.

I drop it back in the box, under the junk.