Old Bark

There’s another spot
on my forearm,
raised and brownish
I hadn’t noticed it before
I suppose nobody has
A few new blemishes,
skin tags popping
like buds in spring;
an undiscovered country
of fresh real estate
I’m growing
They say a man should grow
I’ve got unexpected hair in places too
It’s not like puberty,
the novelty of becoming a man,
not like that at all,
more like a withering,
fading into the background
where you go unnoticed
like black and white pictures
covering walls in restaurants
Curiosity at a passing glance,
but you don’t care about the story
or the miles,
not really
You might find yellowed letters
in an old desk
that reeks of ink and age
It’s all going out
in the yard sale
or maybe the dump,
if nobody wants it,
after the winter ends,
in the spring

© Christopher Raine