What Remains in the Fold

The leather is cracked like an old man's palm,

smelling of peppermint and dry, stale heat.

I pulled it from the shoebox in the hall

and found the ghost of a life, small and neat.

A union card from nineteen-eighty-four,

with a signature that slants toward the edge.

He carried that weight through every door,

a plastic promise, a quiet, heavy pledge.

And tucked behind a receipt for a tire

is a photo where the silver has started to peel.

The edges are frayed like a wire on fire,

showing only a chin and a rusted wheel.

He kept it all pressed in a dark, tight space,

the grit of the work and a piece of a face.