fading scars are fading
Twenty-five years ago I
unloaded a truckful of books.
I’d done it a hundred times.
Seventy-pound boxes
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.
Author Bio:
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.