Something About the Elbow

The call is still going.

Someone's screen shows a bookshelf.

Mine shows my face and just below it,

my elbow, pressed flat against the armrest,

gray and rough as a heel.

You might want to check your lighting,

someone says, off-screen,

and I look down instead of up.

I don't know how long it's been like this.

Months, maybe. All those meetings,

all those elbows on tables,

on the arms of other people's chairs —

leaving this behind me,

this dry embarrassing thing.

Nobody said.

The call wraps up. I stay in the chair.

Later I find lotion and work it in,

slow circles, both hands.

It looks the same the next morning.

Gray, flaking, prehistoric.

Part of me that hasn't gotten the news.