Cincinnati

I was looking for my passport. Nothing more—

a work trip, conference, three nights, nothing grand,

a hotel with a waffle iron in the lobby,

a badge on a lanyard for my hand.

I found her certificate behind it.

The stamp is purple. Nineteen sixty-two.

Her name in typeface no machine still carries.

A clerk's initials. A seal pushed through.

She stood somewhere to earn that piece of paper.

I don't know the room. I don't know how long she stayed.

The crease across the center isn't from a folder—

it's from a smaller place, something that was made

to hide inside. I don't know what.

A coat lining. A shoe. A place

inside the body of a life I can't reconstruct.

I held both documents and kept my face.

Mine is navy blue and barely used.

The conference was fine.

The hotel breakfast was included every morning.

I wore the badge. I waited in the line.