November 28, 2014

Over the hour,
I tried not look at
The stack of scars
That hung on his throat
Like a necklace, tight, or
A pendant with the face
Of a loved one
Buried inside.

The ground was hard
And made of plastic,
Speckled by some artist
In some room
In some country
That I’ve never been to
And will never go to.

But all I could do
Was not look at
The stack of scars.

I wondered if it was contagious.

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