The Metal Edge

I had to catch the number before the tone died,

scribbling the digits on the back of a bill.

I messed up the seven, I shouldn't have tried

to write while the world was refusing to stay still.

I flipped the wood over to rub out the line,

but the pink nub was gone, just a hardened old stone.

It didn't fix anything, didn't look fine,

just scratched at the paper and left it alone.

The metal ferrule left a grey, ugly scar,

a permanent mess where the truth used to be.

Now the mistake is the brightest thing by far,

and there isn't a way to go back and be free.