Negative Space

I slide the watch off to scrub the pot

and find a ghost of a summer I forgot

I actually liked. The skin is bright

under the leather, a band of white

against the dull and seasonal brown.

I'm watching the dish soap lather down

my wrist, circling the pale reminder

of a sun that was younger and kinder.

My shoulder is shedding its translucent skin

like wet tissue paper, thin and thin.

It peels away in a long, soft strip,

letting the heat of the season slip.