Wet Sign

It looked too dry for the warning,

a flat, matte blue on the slats of the pine.

I leaned in close in the middle of the morning,

just to put my own doubt on the line.

The smudge on my thumb is a tacky, bright sin,

smelling of solvents and a deep, chemical cold.

It’s a mark of the way I’ve always been,

needing to feel what I’ve already been told.

I tried to rub it off on the seam of my pants,

but the fabric just drank it and held it fast.

Some things don't give you a second chance,

they just stain the skin and find a way to last.