to me as a scab
does to a knee. But I can’t pick it
off or it would bleed into my heart. So, I wear

it as a second skin, covering the
the one I’m in. It trolls around the city
looking for love or pity. Trailing the baited line

in hopes to find somewhere it can settle, safe from
fallen angels. Some have fixed band-aids to it. Some
have used ointment. But it always oozes discontent

and bruises like a cheap cigar. I take it off with my socks
at night. Lay it on my pillow. Tell it to go to sleep. It never
listens to me. I must give it its nightly bottle before I

put it back on in the morning. It never remembers
a thing of what I told it, or that I hold it out to others
to do something with. They simply don’t know what to

make of it. So, I smile and shake it in their face, wearing
the best impish disgrace I can muster up. This helps
somewhat.