Scab

Each weekend you settle down, 

a chair, a drink, a bag of words

drawn blindly out

one by one

and used to scratch a scab.

The more the rasp, the more the hurt

insidious pleasure 

penance pain

blunt-edged consonants sharpish vowels

bullied flesh left to bleed.

On Monday the wound is glazed

by Wednesday thin-skinned and sore

Friday’s taut frail carapace

battens down for what’s in store.

Each weekend you settle down.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2019