Laminated

It fell out of the back pocket of his old billfold,

a stiff slip of paper that survived the wash

and the decades of him sitting on his own hip.

An expired fishing license from a county out west.

The lamination is yellowed now, peeling at the corner

like a dry scab you aren't supposed to touch.

There’s a blurry smudge of purple ink

where his thumb pressed down to make it legal.

He didn't leave a note about the creek or the luck,

just this plastic-coated promise to follow the rules.

It smells like old leather and cedar shavings,

a small, heavy secret about how he spent his Saturdays.