Pick

Pick

 

Grandma often told me, ‘Don’t pick.’

‘If you knit your brows and scowl,

those lines will mark you, not now

but later and forever.’ She was right.

But I’d still pick. Bites, lumps, ticks,

between toes, up the nose,

pulled strong hairs that flourish there

and uprooted with a sharp stab.

She’d always say, ‘Be a good lad,

don’t scratch because it’ll never heal,

I know those scars will mark you.’

For life it seems. Rash, you might say,

always picking the wrong things.

Of course, I miss her terribly - you do,

all her wisdom that turned out true.