Blast #159

A Poem

Sometimes you just need to sit back --- to reflect and, maybe,
just write a poem about what you're thinking/feeling.
So, that's what today's BLAST is all about.

68
 
The history of the years is recorded in your flesh.
 
They’re gnarled with
individual digits turning away from each other,
embarassed to be seen by their kind.
The pinky angles to get away altogether.
Scars from a slipped wrench, faded now,
create short roads on the map of the hand.
 
The history of the years is recorded in your flesh.
 
That white raised line of skin on your shoulder,
That thin highway of flayed flesh running calf to heel,
that hammer toe crookedly piggy-backing on his friend
in the middle, to get a better view of
Big Toe’s mottled, shattered nail.
 
The history of the years is recorded in your flesh.
 
The color drains from the stories in old tattoos
as muscle mass melts.
The bionics of geriatricity abound:
plastic eyes, teeth, ears provide surrogate senses.
 
As I said,
The history of the years is recorded in your flesh.