fading scars are fading
Twenty-five years ago I
unloaded a truckful of books.
I’d done it a hundred times.
into the back of the store,
ten, twenty, before the bolt
that jutted from the door handle
caught my elbow. Three-inch
tear extended the inner crease
of my left arm. As the manager,
what can you do? I wrapped it
in duct tape, finished the job.
Now I look down, run my fingers
over skin, feel only smoothness.
Even the white has faded
like my days in retail, now
seems just another wrinkle.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Wildflower Muse, Noble/Gas Qtrly, and The Ibis Head Review, among others.