A scar on my thumb tip 
that won’t heal underneath —
current marker of my decrepit
mortality — wound whose cause
I’ve long forgotten, stone scar
pulsing intermittently
with small but constant pain
each time it comes into contact
with anything — guitar neck,
keyboard, another finger — this last
the most persistent as I worry
and rub that tiny round 
into a nearly constant mini-scream —
why do I do this to myself, why don’t I
get it looked at, perhaps removed, 
why do I make it hurt more and more
until the inevitable day
the scar breaks away
from the new flesh underneath — 
so tender, raw, and pink — waiting
for its chance
to harden and mound up
and begin the cycle again —
as I do, as I do each time
I rise wounded from bed
these days, latter days
hard crusting over
raw sense — never 
healing so much that 
I can forget that it hurts — 
even if I don’t know anymore
why it does.