by John Zedolik
The scab has been on my shin
so long that I expect it there,
a permanent feature of note,
raised upon my at best flat terrain,
a butte on the prairie, a tor upon the moor,
destined for view until the landscape’s end.
But on a looking after weeks, only a pink-red
trace remains, no bas-relief from surrounding scrub,
so no relief from tedium of skin on and on,
and no scar developing. I should be happy
for such featureless expanse—unconcerned and
uninterrupted by any bloody shock and break.