Late Fees for the Soul

The lady at the DMV wants proof

that I live where I say I’m sleeping now.

I don't have a lease or a tax-form truth,

just a wallet full of plastic I don't allow

myself to look at. I pull out a card

from three cities back, the edges all frayed.

The laminate is peeling and hard,

a little blue relic of a debt never paid.

The barcode is scuffed from being shoved

into a pocket on a different street.

It’s a record of books I might have loved

back when my life felt more complete.