Cards spread across the driver seat.

Wallet wide open, I search.

Cash gone. Cards still there.

But, Oh, My ID. Me.

My Picture. Missing.

It’s late morning. Tears in my eyes.

How. Why. When.

I feel so vio—

Late it is and I’m driving away.

Tears. What and how am I

Going to do what’s next.

I have to carry on,

Feeling so vio—

Elated they are to see me but

Tears. Because my identity. . .

I can’t prove my name.

When was I born?

Where do I live, where did I come from?

The cards splayed across the seat I sat so

Many hours, days. It’s late

But my brain can’t stop.

Violated is how I feel.

Your hands, wet, fingertips, dirty,

ruined my belongings.


But not anymore.

Violet sky is how I feel.

It’s late. What can I do.

I’m not me.


Receipts, dates of purchases,

You found a sticker I saved from a trip,

A keepsake—a memory for me, and you left it—

You made sure I saw

You touched it with your grimy hands

Moist from the drizzle.

Where did you come from, where were you going?

Cash can buy certain things a debit card can’t

So what, I wonder, are you doing now?

I hope you needed it, fed your family or your addiction.

But it’s late on this day of rest, God’s day,

That you so violated.

Hope you needed it more,

The peace of mind.