The Passport

Without my memories,
the countries would be nothing
but rubber stamps.

And if I didn’t inhabit this body
with its bandy legs,
sunken chest,
day old growth around the chin,
then I’d be nothing but that glossy photograph,
the date of birth,
the scribbled signature.

And if I wasn’t the one
who chooses where I go,
who I see,
then the embossed country
on the dark blue cover
would make those decisions for me.

I open my drawer
and there it is,
a passport
beneath t-shirts, underwear,
snug but not smug.

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