The Small Red Truth, or, Junk Mail's Edge

It came from nothing, really,

a car wash flyer, slick and bright,

straight out of the envelope, a slight

wrong turn, a tiny little slice.

Didn't notice 'til I rubbed my jeans,

that soft denim, then the sting began.

A bead of blood, a small, dark plan

unfolding, making sense of what it means.

It’s there, a precise, thin red line,

on my fingertip, a small, loud protest,

so bright, so sharp, it won't let rest

the rest of me, until it's perfectly fine.

And now the whole day feels like this,

an edge, a sudden catch, a tiny, hot,

real thing, where nothing else is not

so blurry, or so easy to dismiss.