I flip open my billfold and credit cards spare keys spill
by the checkout. Squares of papers spiral away—
health insurance, car insurance, renter’s, life—
cards for places I am welcomed and punched:
the corner deli, video and coffee shop, any place
to buy ten, get the next one free.

The smocked clerk pops gum bubbles while I drop
and scoop the license with old address,
new Visa green and unswiped, push them
back into frayed lining, hazed windows
cracked like a derelict house.

Tonight I shift pictures to a new wallet, stiff
and cow-smelling. Remove the posed three, keep
the brace-tight smile of my son. But he won’t fit
in frosted sleeves. Trim the white border; still no.

This again: love him and make him
smaller, choose which arm
to cut from his body.

____

The play of things trivial and irreplaceable intrigued me here, as did what our wallets say about our lives. The ever-present conflict of inclusion and exclusion, and its consequences.