“My drivers license”

I hold it, my arm out
stretched,
to show the smooth
cheeked checkout
girl.
"Here is your proof,"
I tell her,
"that I am too old."

She looks up, laughs,
and I put it back
in my pants.

The conveyor belt
comes on.

narrative poem written on 04-20-2013 by: on mattkane.com
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