They took your shoelaces,
your carabiner of tooth-
edged keys, but left you
your belt, which you cinched
over your loopless scrubs.
They shaved your scalp
for the stitches but missed
a tuft above your ear
that catches the light
from the hingeless windows.
The receptionist holds up
a small paper bag
stapled shut. Whatever
you had worth saving.
You look, then look away.
Once, hungover
on a gut-and-remodel job
in Grafton, you cracked the root
of your nose with your claw
hammer’s backswing.
You stood very still after,
watching your blood scatter
on the plywood floor, alien
and bright as coins
from a distant country.