Dues Paid

I was looking for a quarter for the meter

in the pockets of the coat he left behind.

The wool smells like cedar and old tobacco.

My fingers snagged on a sharp edge of plastic.

It’s the union card, Local 42.

The lamination is peeling at the corners,

stained yellow by the oil from his palms.

He kept it tucked behind the family photos

like it was the only thing keeping the roof

from blowing off the house.