Contenders

I'm wrapped up today
like a woebegone pugilist
with a splint on my wrist
from a doc-in-the-box
to help heal a sprain
or a strain or neither
that isn't carpal tunnel.

There's a ripped envelope
to my right with its contents
spewed across the kitchen table:
A xeroxed sheet of science notes
"for the kids"
from chapters 13 and 14
with outdated info on water purification
printed in purple ink;
A wheatback penny from 1939;
A Baptist tract with scripture
intended to save my soul;
And an invoice with stamps
labeled diagrams
and capitalized ballpoint pen
that details the free labor
of cleaning and oiling
the enclosed rifle spring
from before the Civil War.
At the bottom of the page
he's squeezed a website address
and scrawled his humble boast
of providing mail order since 1965.

I sniff the dark and greasy palm
of my hardened clinic bandage
and remember it's still me.

In eight minutes I'll cover
my forearm with a garbage bag
and take an overdue shower
but if I could do anything right now
sans words or repercussions
I'd hug a stranger from Pennsylvania
who's somehow made it to eighty.


Currently reading:
"Poetry:  July/August 2019".