Perfect Skin

By Mike Bell Poetry No comments

This skin on my foot
is turning to cratered scales –

like that of F’s
re-homed grandpa –

with his octogenarian husk
flaking from
his bared feet and shins

as if he had been set adrift
on the sea and salt-burnt

That old combatant held court
in his Surrey nursing home

thirty five years ago
His layers of recalls and of dust –

his remnants in a rented room –
have long been hoovered up

Perfect
perhaps there is hope for me yet

Mike Bell Poetry

Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be about 85 years old and have out-gunned PD, dementia, and the end of days. Possibly. Before the floods and fires. Mike Bell is found working for money as a freelance set designer.

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