Pinned identity

The coffee shop closing. She unpinned it,

the barista, with a quiet, small click.

Her name, printed clear, the plastic bit

of a job, a role, just a trick

of temporary being.

It left a slight crease on her apron's cloth,

a tiny indentation, where it had been.

She dropped it in her purse, no sign of froth

or farewell. Just a worker, unseen

now. The small rectangle, a borrowed face,

put away for the night. Another day

her own. I watched her leave the place,

and wondered what name she wore, anyway.