The Purple Patches

of old age have begun to show on my arms. 

Presently there is a large one coloring

ugly the back of my left hand.

I wouldn’t mind if I couldn’t see them,

a fact which is generally true of blemish;

but I can, as can anyone else with eyes.

So what’s to be done about purple patches?

Try to receive less knocks, for one thing;

wear long sleeves or lotion, for another,

Though that latter tact is beneath me.

Therefore, I’ll strive for fewer knocks,

to create less subcutaneous bleeds,

And cultivate an indifference to them—

not sporting them proudly as scoundrels

are said to their nationalism— but rather

Making of them nothing at all,

as I would, or at least I hope I would,

suddenly becoming handsome and tall.