The Map of Scars

Framed by difference bleeding badly,
I was taking off equipment.
Perched my plagiarizing leg
against the over-conscious wall.
The long parade of youth beside me.
Bouncing four and five-year olds.
Sporting jade of satin motion.
Wanting just to pat mistakes.

Left was strong and self-possessed.
On the right were all the wrongs.
Splinters stretched to stipulations.
Wishbone limbs that lost the draw.
My shrunken femur was remorse
for not supplying wet assurance:
"Chances are, you'll grow up flawless.
Merely staring at the oats in
troughs of horses living lame"

Courage cattle had to gather.
Thirsty doesn't have a choice.
Effort was the only pearl
in clusters of salvation's brooch.
Between the hymns of  "Don't You Stare!"
came recognition's dulcet psalm.
A requiem of folded hands
like envelopes that sealed fate.
The credit-card was gratitude
in wallets of their mothers' eyes.
The map of scars, a table-cloth that
God had graced with broken plates.

Janet I. Buck


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