Clocked In

I slide the band across my hand

to see the border of the land.

Where leather met the sticky heat

the skin is dark as city street.

But underneath the ticking face

there lies a pale and hidden place.

A strip of white, a ghostly track,

the only part they didn't hack.

It’s where the grit and sun were barred,

a quiet inch that isn't scarred.

A map of time I had to sell

to keep the rest of me from hell.