Restless Patch

The skin pulled tight, a raised pink line,

where I went down last month, on the street.

I thought the pain was done, was mine

to forget, make the memory neat.

But no, today, this frantic urge,

to scratch and scratch until it burns.

A ghost of hurt, a soft, dull surge,

a lesson that the body learns

slowly. The way the past can keep

a small, insistent, raw demand.

This healing, it just makes me weep

for things I can't quite understand.

Just under denim, out of sight,

it thrums, a restless, tiny plea.