Poetry

One Bought, One Gratis

The bruise consists of dark skin

Framed in blue, the pigment

Shaded in without

My consent, but

I guess I’ll

Be fine

Soon

The stone had arced through the air

Swaddled in snow and ice,

Twice avoided, never

Consensual, but

Probably

Deserved

It

Indignant I had left the

Scene, tail held between fingers,

Ego gushing out

Profanities,

Head thankful

That it

Lived

Now I wear it like a badge,

One which tells of retreat

As it throbs beneath

My t-shirt and

Beats behind

My back

Still

Joe West