On the bus to work, my cut finger split its scab--
over a water-damaged page of Randal Jarrell, it capped
the last borrower's marginalia with unspotted ladybugs.
Some repurposed notebook paper held the flow of blood,
which showed through the page like a developing photograph.
At Chinatown, an old woman de-boarding
handed me a piece of paper: a single band-aid,
which she must have removed from its box stops earlier
(I never noticed her get on)
and was too nervous to hand over in transit,
observing me modestly hide that my contents were
leaking dun marks on the balding bus cushions.
I imagine her spinning the plastic-wrapped strip
around bony, purple-veined knuckles, perhaps hoping
that I would turn and smile and ask for help directly.
Now the bandage is imprecisely taped around my finger,
plastic wrapping stripped and trashed,
library book returned, work done, bus re-caught,
notebook paper in my pocket, ladybug domes smashed,
finger scabbed, driver retired, woman forgot.
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