Somewhere in there.

The young black cashier asked
to see my license after she'd already
bagged the beer, probably only
because there was a woman in line behind me
who seemed like she would have no qualms
about making a phone call to the local police.

I passed her my ID with my sleeved arm
that usually serves as proof enough.
The photo hadn't been updated
since I was sixteen. I'd asked to pass
on having a new one taken when it was time to
renew my license because my nose had been
recently broken with a beer bottle at a dive bar;
I didn't think a photograph of me
with stitches across my bridge and two black eyes
would behoove me while having
my license checked during a traffic stop.

"I can only recognize you by your eyes,"
the girl said as she inspected the nine-year-old
photo on my license before passing it back.

I thought of explaining that it was an old picture
that wasn't replaced due to a broken nose
but that woman standing behind me
was already clutching her purse tighter than before.

"Thanks," I said with a sly smile as the cashier
handed me my six-packs, and I didn't just mean
for the beer.