red leather
blackened with age
well worn, and slightly curled
like it'd been sat on
a few too many times
without enough dead presidents
inside.

nine washington's and a jefferson
that was it
except for a walmart receipt
for milk, bread, and eggs, the usual,
and a coupon for a dollar off
a six-pack of soda pop.

inside the left pouch,
a hunter ed certificate
from parks and wildlife,
a piece of paper with
a phone number scribbled
in a hurried hand
and an under-21 driver's license
class C, for a 5-11, blue-eyed
male born 3-21-87,
Arthur Frasier
expired today of all days
the address for an apartment
on the west side.

kid looks upset in the photo,
scared to be down at the DMV,
maybe just mad at the world,
maybe neither.
buzz cut, clean shaven, sharp features.
intense eyes gazing straight ahead,
piercing the photo as if to see right through.
thin lips pressed together, unsmiling,
a chiseled, Roman nose,
ears back, chin up, shoulders square.
young, not a day over nineteen,
but already hard and without that
spark of youth in his eye.
instead a look of weariness
and discontent, embers of a fire
slowly going out.

in the other pouch
an AT&T calling card,
and a gas card from Valero.
two family photographs-
one, a graduation
the kid with mom and dad
in cap and gown with an older sister.
the other, a wedding
the sister and a big handsome fellow.
a social security card
in someone else's name,
a company forklift operating license,
a Visa, proof of insurance
for an '87 chevy camaro,
a book of stamps.

the apartment didn't check out,
there was no Frasier living there,
and hadn't been for years,
or so the old man said.
"lease done run out back in '07.
headed down to the Gulf, he said.
oil or somethin' I reckon.
he just come by one day
said he was up and leavin',
all I say was alright.
always kept to hisself,
didn't want nobody bothering or fussin with him
lived with some pretty little thing tho,
always flirting whenever she come by
to pay rent."
he sighed.
"what was it? what was her name?"
he cursed his memory,
and long, gray hair.
then a smile wrinkled
his big brown eyes.
he took another draw
from his cigarrete
then put it out.
"Hope. That was the gal's name.
pretty thing she was."

but hope never came
and Arthur never showed himself.
so the wallet lay
forgotten, gathering dust
in the bottom shelf of the station's safe
awaiting a claim.

and the note read:
"found lying on a parkbench
by the bus stop on fifth street."