Proof of Residency

I’m filling out boxes for a job I don't want,

pretending my history isn't so thin.

I found his old wallet, the leather is gaunt,

and his social security card is tucked in.

It’s handwritten ink on a scrap of frayed blue,

pressed in a crease where the money once sat.

It smells like the garage and a cedarwood shoe,

and I’m nothing like him. I’m certain of that.