TUESDAY: Blood on Our Hands


Copyright is held by the author.

Something cut my finger,
my innocent finger,
as I reached in, feeling for money.
It was not the knife,
neatly folded, prime suspect.
But perhaps the comb,
or some other
hard edged plastic
feigning innocence, like all plastic,
blaming the finger:
your skin’s too thin, it’s
your own fault.
One way or another.

I pull my hand out,
pay with blood streaked bills.

We all pay bills
with blood streaked hands.
Yet it’s the blood,
not the plastic
that embarrasses

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