Credential

The gym bag is a tomb for things I lost.

I find the badge under a knotted towel.

My face in the plastic square

looks like a man being asked a question

he doesn't want to answer.

The nylon strap is a rough, black cord.

I remember the heat of it,

the way it chewed a red rash into my neck

during the twelve-hour shifts.

The metal clip is dead.

I press it, but the spring is gone.