Hit the table the sharp quick pain

Hit the table, the sharp, quick pain,

a stupid jolt, familiar sting.

Looked down, saw it again,

the skin, a mottled, living thing.

A fresh purple bloom, a tender knot,

beside the fading green-yellow smear.

A history, slowly wrought,

of clumsy steps, held here

in memory, or just forgot.

My shin, a canvas, marked and made.

A small landscape of minor wars.

The body keeps what others fade.

These accidental, tiny scores

remain, a silent parade.