The Cut by Timothy Robbins

I cut the side of my left thumb,
a scissor slip as I was patching the sofa.
Elizabeth Schwarzkopf in shaky black and white
sang, “Drink to me only with thine eyes.”
Mike was tête-à-tête with an astrologer online
(prophecy steadieth his fears as music doth mine).

The thumb bled a little then stopped as though
it thought the effort wasted. If I were in a bleeding
contest, this would be humiliation. If I were a
Romanov, it would be a miracle. The likelihood
of this pinkish smear being virus-free
is a testament to human ingenuity.

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One Comment

  1. another rather remarkable poem


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