Marked

I thought it was a smudge of grease

from the gasket I’d tried to fix.

I stood at the sink and used the soap

until my knuckles were raw and red.

But the spot stayed dark on my hand,

gripping the wheel in the four o'clock sun.

It’s a jagged little island of brown

where the skin has finally given up.

It wasn't there when I was twenty.

Now it sits like a quiet, flat scab

that will never fall off or heal,

just widening its border every year.