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.
One thought on “The Cut by Timothy Robbins”
another rather remarkable poem