Side-Writer

The soap bubbles are white until they touch my palm.

Then they turn the color of a rainy street,

dissolving the lead I’ve been dragging

across the page all morning.

It’s a shiny stain, a bruise made of light

that won't just lift with a quick rinse.

I have to lean into the sponge

to get the silver out of the creases.

Being wrong-handed means living in the smudge.

I’m always chasing my own words,

erasing them with the side of my fist

before the ink has a chance to settle.