My left leg seems convinced
that a scab is necessary
at all times, at least,
that’s the way it appears to me.
Over the years, it has become used
to sporting an array of scabs
at any given time, for reasons
too lengthy to go into here.
But, of late, it has been
quite well behaved, and reduced
its trophies from few
to merely one, and that
a very minor thing, a bump only
discernible by exploring fingertip,
a tiny but annoying blemish
on the vacant landscape.
I bore the temptation to pick at it
for many days, aware of extended
healing times when getting old,
but, when it remained unaltered,
always interrupting any smooth
transition over featureless skin,
I lost patience and peeled it off,
without result, it seemed.
It was only later I caught a glance
of the long red stripe it drew
from below the knee
almost to the ankle.
I cleaned it up but now it sports
a little scab identical
which I dare not pick at
knowing that, if I do,
I’ll get the same or worse,
Line Count: 34