A Wound On His Forehead Poem by RIC BASTASA

he scratched it accidentally
perhaps when he was asleep
as he was wont
to raise his arms on his forehead,

and with uncut nails
he caused a wound therein
infected by his carelessness
his hand touching
barely almost anything dirty

he looks at himself on the mirror
studying
the gaping wound like an
eye staring back at him
asking

why should a man raise his hands
even when asleep?

and why should he wound himself
unnecessarily?

why does he not care about
the possibility of the complexity of an infection
that may even
cause his death?

is this the kind of surrender
he had dreamed of inside his dream?

his way of finally giving up life
since it left him with nothing to offer?

he looks at himself closely
now, he becomes a strange man staring at
another man he thought
he knew too well.