Watch This One

She circled it in black—a marking pen,

surgical ring—and said we'll watch this one,

and that was that. I've been checking since then:

visor mirror at red lights, collar undone

in bad bathroom light, wrong angle, always.

Four days now. The circle's fading but

it hasn't gone. I keep hearing the phrase

in places it was never meant: the cut

I've let go on my hand from two weeks back.

The bill I haven't called about. The friend

I've been meaning to reach since—I lose track.

The cough. My shoulder. Watch this one. The end

of what, exactly. I don't know. I pull the collar.

I look. The ring's still there. Just smaller.