this bruise is nothing

this bruise is nothing.

the plum rise of blood on skin.
the thickness
of the strike.

how easily
we bump into things,
or things into us.

this strange part of life.

with age we
touch the table to move
across
the room,

go slowly up the staircase.
as if on
ice we

negotiate the wet floor
of the kitchen
or bathroom.

but this bruise is nothing.
hardly a wound
worth mentioning.

i'm sure there are more to come.
both inside
as well as out.

its colors will go towards
green
then yellow, then back again
towards a fleshy shade of white.