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The Same Skin





The Same Skin


which you cut from

now has a deep scar

not unlike the Great Wall

seen from space.

Ankle bones removed; dead, useless bones.

A metal rod and some screws take their place.

They should be stronger than bone, but they are not.

My walk unsteady, my pain still sharp.

Should, should, should; prescribed, not described by you,

doctor, doctor, cutter, stitcher, builder, taker.

Under oath to do me no harm, you

did your best, we suppose, we hope, we pay.

We are of the same cloth, you and I,

but one has no limp and one now uses a cane.

We’re so alike - we might be brothers -

same skin, same blood, same body type,

but, alas...


Mike Griffith


Michael A. Griffith teaches and lives near Princeton, NJ. His poems, essays, and flash fiction appears online and in-print in such places as Nostalgia Digest, Ariel Chart, The Blue Nib, Teaching for Success, Poetry Super Highway, and Spillwords. His first chapbook will be released this fall from The Blue Nib. 

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