Foreign Object

It was just a quick brush of the palm

on the banister going down to the hall.

A tiny grain of the wood stayed behind,

a needle-thin hitch in the skin.

By noon it was all I could think about,

a pulsing red dot that demanded a look.

I sat at the stove with a sewing pin

and watched the blue flame turn the metal to black.

It’s funny how something so small and so sharp

can make the whole afternoon feel like a task.

You dig at the surface, trying to find the end

of the thing that got under your guard.