I stand at your door.
Waiting for it to open.
The lock is engaged.
I spy a cover covering, an incidental minor.
Abrasion? Gash? Raw Corned-beef Hash?
A rash resemblIng North Carolina?
A last resort, to hide a wart?
Once shot some hoops at the Y,
and found one in the shower.
Band-Aid in, and abetting,
flesh colored cut concealer.
Put one down upon my thumb,
when tip lost to a peeler.
Show the world that you are hurt.
You, hypochondriac diva.
A bandaged Band-Aid full report,
prime sympathy achiever.
The last refrain, I can’t resist.
A Speedy Wong’s, unplanned surprise.
One night I thought to order in,
and found one in my gravy fries.
A very special thanks to all the soiled Band-Aids in this world, that seem to find me (and aren’t mine).